Dearest Sherlock, Love Molly xox
by autumnmom
Summary: Girls are turning up dead around London, and suddenly, after an utterly disastrous Christmas Party, Molly goes missing. She's forced to take part in the crimes, Sherlock has riddles to solve, and Molly's captor reads her private thoughts. AU, Sherlolly, Moriarty.
1. Prologue

_**Hello, gentle reader. This story is my first Sherlock fan fic. I have it labeled as 'M'. It's also AU. **_

_**Some other things to know: **_

_**1) It pains me greatly to admit that I'm not British. Wish I was.**_

_**2) WARNINGS: Dead bodies (what's a Sherlock tale without them?!), talk/threats of/actual sexual assaults, torture, kidnapping, murders, and foul language.**_

_**3) TRUST IN THE STORYTELLER.  
**_

_**4) I will not hold chapters hostage in exchange for reviews.**_

_**5) Thank you for reviews. They are wonderful!  
**_

_**6) After this, there will be no lengthy shout-outs, or excessive notes—unless it's warranted.**_

_**Now, pardon me, I must look for the "I do not own Sherlock" disclaimer notice Moffat and Gatiss made me sign… Enjoy.**_

ooooooooooooo

PROLOGUE:

_11 p.m., Monday_

The brand-new "LondonLovers" dating website was somewhat slow this evening. 1895 people were currently online. In just five months time, 26,473 profiles were created, waiting to be seen by someone—anyone.

It smacked of desperation, which was something to be taken advantage of.

Boredom threatened to set in, so it was the best time to peruse profiles, or chat up another lonely heart. Perhaps luck would be good tonight; the last four women were kind of a disappointment. The current one, the one sobbing uncontrollably at the moment, had been caught in a lie.

Not very nice. But she would be dealt with, just like the others.

A sobbing voice pierced the darkness. _"I'm sorry!"_

It was _her, __the new one_. God, she was still crying? Something would have to be done about that—and soon.

_"I'm sorry I lied!"_ she screamed.

"We've been over this," was the cool reply, via a microphone. "It's too late for that."

"_Please," _she pleaded. Please, just listen to me. I'll do anything you wa—"

Eyes rolled, and the computer's speakers were turned off, plunging the room into silence once more. Begging was useless and boring.

Yes, that relationship was dead, it was time to look for yet another plaything. The collection was growing, but one could never have too many.

_Click._

A picture of a perky woman crops up. She's blonde, wearing a baseball cap and red and white jersey. An American, actually, recently relocated to London. She likes the Phillies, Bruce Springsteen, and the color red.

No. _Boring._

The mouse clicked again, and another woman's photograph instantly appears. This one, also a blonde—more white than yellow, has her hair in a plait, is wearing glasses, and holding a book. Dan Brown, from the looks of it. A librarian who loves Italian food, reading, and painting.

Ah, yes… the quiet ones were most often the most fun to play with—big screamers—but, no; not interesting enough.

A third profile. Upon closer inspection of this one, it was apparent something was amiss. Her golden tresses were box-colored. Of course! No woman had hair color that natural. Well, hell. Another one? It made the blood boil, these women who lied. Maybe she needed to be taught a lesson.

No, the one in the other room would learn it, like the others. Now, it was time to move on.

With closed eyes, a finger moves around in a great circle on the screen, until it settles on a random profile. Eyes fly open, a mouse clicks, and another golden-haired female looks at him. She's wearing a pretty pink jumper with a white lace collar; a delicate gold chain around her neck, bearing a tiny cross. In her lap is a bible. Religious, then.

No, no, and _no._ As tempting as it may be, the shouts for salvation from a creator would just cause migraines.

There's an audible sigh. A right hand reaches up to rub the base of a skull, massaging the tense flesh there, while the nimble fingers on a left hand rose to rub both temples. The throbbing was getting worse.

In the near darkness, the realization was swift: _It was time for a change._ The current one and the collection acquired were proof of that.

A finger tapped on the desk. What were the choices still available? Gingers or brunettes? No raven-haired women, though; they conjured up images of a certain dominatrix, and, well, that was no fun; she probably wouldn't scream at all.

Why not have a little from both the ginger and brunette worlds? Maybe someone with copper brown hair, then? It would be interesting to know: were they better at game-playing?

Games were _quite_ enjoyable—and it was time to start a new one.

With just a few quick keystrokes, the search parameters were changed. It only took a few seconds before a list of possible matches were on the screen. A faint piano concerto, Beethoven's No. 5 in E-flat major, suddenly floated from the computer speakers.

Ahh, that was so much better than the _crying_.

Scrolling, more scrolling. Humming. There _had to be_ someone on this list that was worth the time and effort. There were some gardeners, teachers, students—lots of students—and a plenty of bored homemakers. _Yawn._ Maybe gingers and brunettes were not a good idea; they were all starting to look the same.

Suddenly, the scrolling stopped. A thrilled giggle escaped moistened lips. With one click, a profile popped up. The sweet, smiling face staring back was achingly familiar; why hadn't this been thought of before?

_"Doctor (and I never get complaints from my patients!), 30-something, loves Pop music, Chinese food, cats, Glee, and helping others." Favorite color: "Cherry red." … Favorite food: "Crisps and coffee." … Motto: "It's fine." … Best Achievement: "Becoming a Doctor." … Best Feature: "My eyes." … Weaknesses: "Being shy, overly accommodating at times, a good cuppa, dark chocolate, and Consulting Detectives." … Greatest Annoyance: "Being invisible to a Consulting Detective." … Greatest Fear: "Being alone." … Biggest Regret: "See 'Greatest Annoyance"._

The joy was nearly impossible to contain. What luck! This should have been thought of sooner.

And what a naughty girl, putting up a profile on a dating site; didn't she know those were dangerous places? It practically screamed _"LONELY!"_ , and attracted all sorts of weirdos. A girl like her could get into all sorts of delicious trouble…

The chair rolled back, a body stretched, joints and knuckles cracked. Yes, a new game could begin. A few of the perimeters would need changing, but that was not a problem; there were so many at one's disposal, it was quite shocking at times.

The light from the computer screen cast an eerie orange glow to the malevolent eyes and Cheshire grin that consumed the room. It was also time to seek out an old friend—and finally get Sherlock Holmes for the trouble.


	2. Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1:

_2 p.m., Wednesday_

Tom and Ben, the grave-diggers at Highgate Cemetery, wiped their hands and faces in satisfaction. In December, the ground was harder than a witch's teat, and was always a bitch to dig, but the machine and the two-man crew got the job done.

It was sad business, burying someone just before Christmas.

The two men split the final bits of their chore; Tom, an older man of about sixty, drove the digger back up onto the lorry, while Ben, a younger ginger-haired lad of about twenty—who just happened to be Tom's grandson—checked the awning they'd erected over the gaping hole, and the braces for the casket. When the hole was covered by a tarp—which they'd roll away as the hearse arrived with the casket the following morning—they looked at each other, glad they could go back to the main building to get some hot coffee to warm up before their shift was over.

They felt sorry for the short, sandy-haired bloke leaving flowers at a nearby grave. He looked cold.

ooooooooooooo

_9 a.m., Thursday_

Millicent MacGregor's family had planned a 10 a.m. graveside service.

Millie, as she had been affectionately known to her friends and loved ones, had gone missing just after Guy Fawkes Night. The family had put up flyers with her picture—a fair-haired girl with a sprinkling of freckles across her nose; her blue eyes shining brightly—and her mates helped in the search. Her parents had gone to the police, initially, but the officials believed she had run off with a secret boyfriend.

Her father said she was a good girl, studying Dentistry at Queen Mary; it was impossible that their daughter would just run off; she didn't even have a boyfriend!

Millie's friends contradicted this story slightly; Millie had snuck off to meet with someone twice before she disappeared. The police wondered if Millie was a drug user.

Her mother had cried on the telly, pleading for Millie to return, that whatever kind of trouble she was in, it would be all right and they would help her solve it.

But it was all for naught; Scotland Yard found Millie's body along a bank under the Southwark Bridge. She had been beaten around her face—and it was so bad, her right eye was missing—sexually assaulted, and strangled, but there were several needle marks in her arm. This confirmed the police's suspicion; Millie was a user, probably prostituting herself for her next hit, and she was killed in a deal gone wrong.

Her parents blatantly refused to believe this; they felt their daughter had been kidnapped and killed, but without sufficient evidence—and the police's disinterest, since the body had now been found—there was nothing they could do.

So they buried their only daughter in Highgate Cemetery, beside her grandparents.

The casket arrived around 9 a.m., and the officials at the cemetery had a checklist to run through before allowing the casket to go to the grave. This took about twenty minutes; they had an excellent record of not mixing up bodies, and they weren't going to smudge that with one Millicent MacGregor.

Tom and Ben, the two grave-diggers who'd dug Millicent's final resting place, led the hearse over to the site. They went straight to the tarp, as the funeral home folks unloaded the casket. When they grasped one end to begin rolling it up, Ben stopped, a look of horror on his face. Tom noticed his grandson wasn't rolling in sync with him, and stopped, too, to look askance at him. Ben looked a bit green. He followed the lad's gaze down into the hole, and gasped, dropping the tarp and leaping back.

"Jay-sus Christ! WHAT THE HELL?" Tom shouted.

The assistant to the funeral director ran over. "What's wrong?" he asked, worriedly.

Ben turned away and threw up in some nearby bushes. Tom pointed down into the hole. The third man peered in, and sighed heavily.

"Sir!" He called behind him. "We've got a problem."

The funeral director looked alarmed. "What kind?"

The assistant sighed again. "A dead female problem—and I don't mean Miss MacGregor. " He paused. "It's bad. Call Scotland Yard."

ooooooooooooo

_11:45 a.m., Thursday_

DI Greg Lestrade hadn't been home in nearly sixteen hours, and just wanted to crawl into bed. There were still three doughnuts left in the bakery box he'd picked up yesterday, and he wanted to finish them. Maybe he'd wash them down with a glass of brandy.

Even a good, strong coffee would be good, really; it sure beat standing around in a cold a graveyard, with a lousy cup of brew. The cemetery office had made a pot, but it was crap.

He looked over at Sgt. Donovan, whose tired expression reflected his own. She was making sure family that had gathered—for the funeral of the woman who was supposed to go in the hole—weren't crossing the yellow tape. It was proving difficult, because all ready two people had ducked under and tried to rush into get pictures. _Who brings a camera to a funeral_? Lestrade thought with disgust.

He ordered Anderson to step aside for three minutes—because, really, wasn't that all Sherlock needed?—to give Donovan a hand. Anderson protested, of course; the forensic scientist had not quite completed his job and did not want Sherlock Holmes—who had just arrived, having received a text from the Detective Inspector—to muck up 'his' crime scene. Lestrade did not care one iota; Anderson would just have to get over it.

Sherlock Holmes's opinion, however odd it was, was important to DI Greg Lestrade—and his cases.

Doctor John Watson had been in tow, looking even more tired than Lestrade felt; Sherlock must have been keeping John awake with that blasted violin, again. Lestrade almost felt sorry for John; he extended his hand, and the doctor took it, nodding his head in greeting.

But Lestrade noticed that John's gaze strayed past his shoulder. He turned to see what John was looking at, but all Lestrade saw were a collection of headstones. "Everything okay?" he asked.

John's eyes shifted back to the Detective Inspector. "What? Oh. Right. Yes. Fine."

"You're not going to tell me you saw a ghost, are you?" Lestrade joked, with a half smile.

"God, no!"

Sherlock watched this exchange in silence, as he loomed over the hole and began inspecting the area. He needed to mentally collect all the clues at his disposal, before making a deduction.

When the Sherlock's silence stretched too long, DI Lestrade spoke up. "Her name is Carrie Gramble. Twenty-four. Lives in Hallfield. Waitress at the Lounge Bar at Thistle Hyde Park Hotel. Father lives in Newbury. Mother deceased. Sister lives in Cardiff," Lestrade rattled off. "Father reported her missing on Saturday. Miss Gramble has an ex-boyfriend, one Mark Johnston, who works at Billingsgate Market—and has a prior arrest record for distributing drugs. Miss Gramble also had no-contact order against him. Last seen by co-workers on Friday."

She was naked, covered with bruises—one side of her face, the right side, was smashed in, the eye missing—with cigarette and match burns encompassing a large portion of her form. There was a very unusual mark on her hand, and she had rope burns around her neck and there were red patches on her wrists. Her blonde hair had been savagely butchered away, and her heart had been pierced once, but it went clean through to her back—but there was little to no blood around the wound.

Someone was obviously very angry with this woman—and had tortured her so horribly for it.

"Gotta say," Lestrade remarked, "that her facial injuries seem familiar; I remember a report DI Carter filed about a girl who washed up under the Southwark with the same damage to the right side of the face."

"Could they be related, then?" John asked. "What was the other girl's name?"

"MacGregor. Mary or Melissa, or something."

Sherlock whipped around to face Lestrade, his coat making a rustling sound. "Millicent MacGregor?"

"Yes, that's it."

"As in the Millicent MacGregor who should be in this grave?"

Lestrade gaped at him. "Of course, why didn't I—?" He walked away to talk to Donovan. Sherlock called out Lestrade he'd like to see the files. The Detective Inspector waved his hand and nodded his consent.

"He needs sleep," Sherlock remarked, watching Lestrade's retreating back. "He wouldn't have overlooked that fact, otherwise."

He turned back to the dead woman before him, leaning in to look at the victim's belongings, which had been folded neatly in a pile, and placed in the hole next to the body. A purple wallet lay on top, a name badge pinned to a white shirt, a black apron and skirt. Her sturdy black shoes had been wiped clean, but he turned them over anyway, and really inspected them. He wasn't disappointed; there was a very tiny white rock stuck in the tread of the right heel. He removed that and placed it in a plastic bag. Sherlock set them aside, and looked at the name badge. Something was stuck to it. It looked like two flecks of carpeting. He gingerly lifted one away and placed it in another plastic bag extracted from his overcoat.

"What do you have there?" John asked in a low tone, from behind him. Sherlock said nothing, taking out his camera and photographing the woman and her injuries. He peered closely at her head wound; there were some splinters embedded in the skin.

Sherlock took a few of them and bagged them up, too.

John looked over at Lestrade; one of his men had approached him and Donovan, and gestured to the crowd, who was supposed to be mourning, but now had turned angry. The funeral director, his assistant, Tom, Ben, and one of the people from the cemetery office were trying to calm the crowd of fifty, but it wasn't doing much good. One of Miss MacGregor's female family members had started shouting. The Detective Inspector made an annoyed noise and stalked off to where Anderson, and another officer were now dealing with the noisy MacGregor family members—and not well, either; Anderson had begun to raise his voice.

"Anderson's an idiot," Sherlock announced.

"Sherlock," came John's warning.

Sherlock held up the plastic bags. "Wood splinters and a piece of carpet." He stood up and showed John what he'd collected. "One from her head, and the other was stuck to her name badge."

"Which one came from her head?" John asked, feigning innocence. Sherlock gave him a look that clearly meant he was not amused. So he said: "Anderson's going to be quite put out that you found those so quickly."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I left some for him, although I don't know why. Anderson's a moron and wouldn't be able to find a clue, even if that strange, blue puppy waved one in his face."

"Crap telly, again, Sherlock?" John snickered.

"Shut up, John." Sherlock ordered. He looked around at the ground surrounding the grave. He saw several set of footprints, after looking at the shoes of all the people standing around, he realized that all were accounted for. There were no footprints that didn't belong. He spun circles as he scanned the area; something wasn't right.

He found it then. There were scrape marks on the freshly-dug ground. Someone had taken a rake to the earth to cover their tracks. He scooped a little of the dirt into another little bag, and nodded to John. He stood up and strolled towards to Lestrade, who had now turned away from the crowd to catch Sherlock to get his opinion.

Sherlock did not waste any time summing up his findings.

"Her wrists were bound duct tape, but there was a mark on her palm," he stated. "Electrical burn. There are no electric fences in this area. So she was not murdered here in the cemetery. I found these," He held out the bags with the stone and carpet fabric. Lestrade took them as evidence.

John knew they'd get their hands on them, later, thanks to Molly Hooper, the friendly pathologist at St. Bart's. John didn't approve—because it just wasn't fair to Molly—but he knew that Sherlock could charm the forensic pathologist into giving him nearly anything he wanted; there were a bag of fingers and a container of eyeballs in their refrigerator as proof.

Sherlock continued. "She had either walked—or had been dragged—across an area made up of crushed stone. I must do an analysis to determine what sort of stone it is: Possibly slate, limestone, quartz. The carpet fiber is similar in color and design that many builders have installed in new homes."

Lestrade nodded; when he and his wife had bought their house, they'd had to deal with some crap carpeting; it was soft, but it was hard to keep clean. His wife had it all removed—at several hundred quid, which really annoyed the DI—and replaced it with hardwood flooring.

"You know about carpet fibers, yet don't know the name of our Prime Minister," John snarked.

Sherlock glared at his friend, but continued. "Her hair was butchered off, but there are no traces of cut hair on the ground, the hole, or her clothes. The burns had been applied by two people; the pressure and size applied to them are not similar—and the circles are not of the same size. One of them had a cigar. She was beaten with a piece of wood. Her hair color isn't natural, obviously. She doesn't have any fish odors lingering in her hair or clothing, so I suspect she hasn't come into contact with the ex-boyfriend in quite some time, which means he has been abiding the no-contact order, and therefore didn't kill her. He has a history of peddling drugs and been missing for a while, so, the person—or people—he owed money to took the girl and tortured her for information on his whereabouts, then dumped her in the hole. Find the ex-boyfriend, and you may get the name of his dealer—and the murderer."

"Is that all?" Lestrade asked; he was still amazed at how much Sherlock could deduce from just a few minutes at a crime scene.

"For now," Sherlock put his magnifying glass—and the samples he'd collected—into his pocket, and looked at the doctor. "Don't forget about those files, Lestrade; I want to see them." He turned to his friend. "Come, John lots to do!" The two slipped under the yellow tape, evaded questions from reporters, and hailed a cab.

ooooooooooooo

7_ p.m., Thursday_

For many hours, the flat was silent. The only sounds came from the street below or the occasional taping of keys as a computer was used, or clinking of glass as Sherlock fiddled with his kitchen lab equipment. He spent some time sitting very still, thinking, accessing his mind palace for information pertaining to the dead woman.

Lestrade was true to his word; he sent over the box of files on Millicent MacGregor via a courier to 221B Baker Street. Sherlock had poured over them, as well as the photographs he'd taken of Miss Gramble and the crime scene.

John had gone out for milk, picked up some take-away from the Chinese restaurant down the street, and had tea with Mrs. Hudson. When he felt he had done everything that needed doing, he took this time to close his eyes. He was tired, not having a decent amount of sleep since Tuesday night.

He recalled what had happened:

_Sherlock had returned from St. Bart's on Wednesday evening, his face in a pout and he'd flung himself onto the sofa and tapped his fingers angrily on the arm. He had sighed, rather loudly, three times before John chose to take the bait and look up from his computer to ask what was wrong._

_"She brought a man in tonight," Sherlock had bit out distastefully. _

_John had looked at him blankly. "I'm sorry, who?"_

_"Molly." _

_He had sounded put out. That had struck John as odd. "Oh, was she working on a cadaver?" John had asked._

_"No." Sherlock growled._

_Understanding was immediate. "Ah, a live one."_

_"Yes," Sherlock bit out. "His name is _Jim."_ The name sounded as if it had left a bitter taste in Sherlock's mouth. "He works in IT. They thought it was so _amusing_ that both had online profiles on the same dating site, so they got together for a meal in Saint Bart's cafeteria to discuss it and then had nerve to disturb me in the lab to keep their conversation going."_

_"Oh. Well, good for her," John had said with a little smile. _

_Sherlock look disgusted. "No, it's not. He distracted her and she couldn't help me finish checking the skin samples from the case we worked on last week." He had crossed his arms moodily._

_"You mean 'The Speckled Blonde'?" John had queried._

_Sherlock had rolled his eyes. "No matter how many times you say it, it still sounds stupid, but, yes, that one." At this point, he kicked his shoes off and flung them across the room; they crashed into the table next to his chair, and knocked over an empty glass on top. He had slammed his feet on the low table in front of him, jarring the paperwork and magazines. John had sighed and rose from his seat to retrieve all the fallen objects. Even as he walked into the kitchen to drop the glass into the sink, Sherlock had rambled on._

_ "Molly was simpering and giggling… it was ridiculous, and grated my nerves. I had to do all the work alone." He had frowned even further._

_"Imagine that." John had murmured as he sat down again_

_Sherlock had huffed, obviously hearing, but continued. "She introduced him to me. I took one look at him, and told her he was gay. She took exception to this, but the life of me I don't know why. He left, making some paltry excuse—and, god, there was more giggling. As soon as the door shut, she asked for an explanation." Sherlock had waved his hand dismissively. "As if one was required! Am I really the only one who really observes?"_

_John had shaken his head in disbelief. "I'm going to regret asking, but… what was wrong with the guy—besides him being a distraction to Molly and your work?"_

_Sherlock had wrinkled his face. "His clothes. The exposed underwear was the obvious first clue, then the color—neon, really? And the excessive hair product—"_

_"Hey, I wear hair product!" John had interjected, offended._

_"Yes, and you wash your hair regularly, John," Sherlock had replied. "This _Jim_ also left his phone number under a tray next to my elbow."_

_John had guffawed at this. "Really?"_

_"Yes," Sherlock's lips had pursed in distaste. "But did Molly thank me for sparing her from such ridiculousness? Oh, no," again, he made a disgusted face. "She scolded me—something about spoiling things and told me to get out of her lab!" Sherlock had stood up at this, and ripped his coat off, throwing it on the sofa_. "_I was only trying to save her from being embarrassed later!"_

_"Yeah, well, you went about it all wrong. That was not good, Sherlock. Not at all." John scolded._

_"It wasn't?" _

_John had seen his friend's slight brow furrow; the genius was truly confused. "No, it really wasn't. Molly's a nice girl, and your words—while, technically, helpful—were out of line. Sometimes, people want to find out things on their own."_

_"That's stupid."_

_"That's called being human. Seems you've forgotten about that."_

_"Oh." Sherlock had looked away, suddenly looking very deflated._

_And for the rest of the evening, Sherlock had said nothing. He had changed into his pyjamas and lay across the sofa, hands steepled beneath his chin, for about an hour. Around 1 a.m., John had finished writing in his blog, downed the remainder his tea, and switched of the lights, leaving Sherlock in complete darkness._

_"Goodnight, Sherlock," John had said._

_"Mmm," Sherlock had responded absently._

_John had shuffled off to his bedroom upstairs, readied himself for bed, and had just laid his head on the pillow, when a few strands of music floated up the steps. Sherlock was playing his violin. It was a slow, sad melody, and John smiled in the darkness. Something was bothering Sherlock, and if John was a betting man, he would have placed money on Molly Hooper. _

_He had closed his eyes and drifted to sleep, but—suddenly, it seemed—he was awoken by a horrid screeching sound. He had leapt from his bed—an automatic reaction from his days as a soldier—ready to do battle. It had taken him a moment, but John realized it was Sherlock playing rather badly. His friend was frustrated._

_John had looked at the clock. He had slept for only two hours! _

_"Dammit, Sherlock! Yes, you were thrown out of Bart's, but you don't need to torture the entire street!" John hollered down the stairs._

_Sherlock had only increased the tempo. John had heard voices in the street below bellowing for Sherlock to knock it off, but everyone in the area knew it would do no good; Sherlock Holmes, once in a mood, took a very long time to come out of it._

John chuckled drowsily. Just before he drifted off, he wished Sherlock would just fire a gun at the wall when he was angry; at least he'd eventually run out of bullets.

ooooooooooooo

_11 p.m., Thursday_

The cab ride over to St. Bart's was amusing, in John's opinion—once he overlooked Sherlock's aggravating quirks.

"Sherlock," John began, "are you sure Molly will be okay with us just showing up?"

"She'll be fine." Sherlock said simply.

"You sound quite certain."

"Yes, I used your phone to text her; I asked her if I could come in and get some work done, and she said yes."

"YOU USED—?" John felt his eyes bulge out. "You have _got_ to be kidding me." He looked closely at Sherlock. "You aren't, are you? … Of course not." He took a calming breath before uttering the next sentence, as though speaking to a child. "Why did you use my phone?"

"I couldn't find mine at the time." Sherlock replied, as though it was so obvious.

"You do realize that Molly thought **I** was texting her?" John asked.

"The thought crossed my mind."

"That's low, even for you."

"I have to get into that lab, John," Sherlock stated. "I'm limited on what I can do in the flat, and have to run more tests on all the samples I collected."

"You should have just apologized to Molly," John said. "Tricking her is not good. She's going to think something bad about me, now, and we're both going to get tossed out."

"Don't be stupid," Sherlock replied. "She likes us; she simply displayed a chemical imbalance, two nights ago."

"You're an idiot."

Sherlock said nothing.

"Just forget it," John said, after a short pause to collect his thoughts.

"So, when were you going to tell me that you had been at the crime scene on Wednesday?" Sherlock asked, still not looking at John.

_"What?"_

"Of course, you didn't know it was going to be a crime scene at the time, but first, you went to Hyde Park to meet up with a woman for coffee and conversation. You invited her to the Christmas party, too. A bit too soon for that, in my opinion. Afterward, you picked up some flowers and went to Highgate to leave them at a Grace Watson's grave. Mother?"

"Grandmother," John replied automatically. Realization hit him and he sat up straighter in the seat. "Hang on," John said warily. "Did you _follow me?_"

Sherlock gave him a sidelong glance before looking out the cab's window. "I was bored and decided to go out; it just happened to be the same route you took." Sherlock looked out the window, clearly bored again. "I had been wondering when you were going to tell me you'd been to Highgate."

"Well, I guess I didn't really need to, since you followed me."

"Mmm," Sherlock responded absently

"Jeanette." John suddenly blurted, desperate to keep his sanity.

"What?" Sherlock glanced at John.

"Her name is Jeanette," John replied, "Met her online about three weeks ago, started seeing her in person about two weeks back."

"Two weeks, John? How come I wasn't informed of this sooner?"

"Well, I just assumed you knew," John replied tartly. "Apparently, you know everything else that goes on—and yes, I did invite her."

"Wonderful," Sherlock remarked flatly. "Another dull person to add to the equally dull conversation we'll undoubtedly have that evening."

"It won't be 'dull', Sherlock," John ground out, "if the lot of us don't have to worry about offending you in some way."

"The party itself is offending. I hate the holidays; such tedious business."

"Oh, Sherlock, do lighten up," John chuckled. "At least for Mrs. Hudson's sake; she loves this time of the year." It was true; when he visited her for tea, she enlisted John's help to setup and decorate her tree, place lights in the windows, and tack up gaudy gold garland from her ceiling. Sherlock hated it, but refrained from saying so in front of their landlady; he really did care about her, and if the tacky decorations made her happy, Sherlock wasn't going to burst her bubble.

Sherlock looked at John; he knew what the doctor was thinking of, of course. He sighed resignedly. "Fine. For Mrs. Hudson, then. But I'm not wearing those stupid antlers."


	3. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

_11:25 p.m., Thursday_

They took the lift down to the mortuary, having seen Mike Stamford, who was just leaving; he told the pair they'd find Molly there, going over Miss Gramble's body.

Sherlock stepped into the lift. "Tell me, John: Did you see that dead woman while you were at your grandmother's grave?"

John sighed, jabbing the 'Door Close' button. "Really? You're basically asking me if I was checking under the bushes and looking in freshly-dug holes, looking for a dead, nude woman while trying to mourn at my granny's grave?"

The Consulting Detective ignored the exasperation in John's voice. Sherlock smirked self-importantly. "I would have."

John stared, dumbfounded. "Yeah, well… I'm not you."

"Yes, thank goodness for that," Sherlock murmured. John simply shook his head, trying not to grin.

"So… did you?"

Sherlock's brow arched. "You have to ask?"

"Jesus, Sherlock," John laughed., slightly disgusted. "Anyway, the two blokes who dug the grave were just finishing up when I arrived, so there's no way the body was dumped at that time. Didn't you see them?"

"I did; they were driving the lorry into the utility building."

The door opened, and they stepped into the long, quiet hallway. It didn't matter how many times he'd been here, John found this place to be heavy with sadness. It was odd that someone as sweet and happy as Molly Hooper worked here, yet it didn't seem to affect her—but put Sherlock in the same room, and she became flustered, withdrawn.

Sherlock went in first, pushing open the door with his usual force… but he stopped so quickly, that John ran into him.

"What the hell?" John complained. When Sherlock didn't move, he peered around the taller man.

There was Molly, in her white lab coat, red jumper, and baggy tan pants… and she had company—and his hand was on her waist.

John, moving into clear view, coughed and looked away. Sherlock, however, stood very still and stared—hard.

"OH!" Molly gasped, moving away from the man, her face turning red. She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Hello, John… Sherlock." She barely looked at him, but smiled warmly at John. "I've got Miss Gramble right here." She gestured to the body on the table.

"Ah," John said. "So, who's your, er, friend?"

_"Jim,"_ Sherlock said—too swiftly. John raised an eyebrow.

So did Jim, as he leaned back on the table behind him and Molly, amused.

Molly giggled. "This is Jim," she said, smiling at Jim, grasping his hand; he lifted it to his lips. This made Molly titter again. "He works upstairs in IT. We're having an 'office romance', I guess you could say."

_"I wouldn't,"_ Sherlock growled.

"Sherlock, no one was asking you," John said quickly, seeing Molly's face, as if Sherlock had just slapped her.

Molly quickly drew her hand away from Jim, who frowned slightly.

"No one ever does, despite my accuracy for being correct." Sherlock fixed his gaze on Molly now, who squirmed and turned away, pretending to straighten things behind her.

_'Don't look at him.'_ she thought, as she fiddled with a box of latex gloves. _'What is he doing here anyway? I told him he wasn't allowed to be here!'_

_'That's technically not true,'_ said a small voice. _'You only threw him out that night. Admit it; you're glad to see him.'_

_'But he's rude!_'

_'And clever—and handsome!'_

'_So, it's okay for a man to be utterly adorable and unbelievably smart, but treat me like dirt? Yes, that makes_ complete _sense._'

_'You've seen him when he thinks no one's looking,'_ the little voice said. _'He is capable of more than he shows. Don't give up on that. Sherlock's a great man; one day, if you're _really _lucky, he'll prove he's a_ good _man.'_

Molly's heart flipped over, and she sighed in frustration. She hated when that stupid voice was right.

"Molly… you okay?" Jim asked. She looked at him, and he reached up and brushed away a tear that she didn't even realize she'd shed.

"Wh-what?" She shook her head to clear the cobwebs. "Oh, yes. I was just… Well, I have many things on my mind. Have a lot to do this evening."

"It would get done faster without distractions." Sherlock said in a low voice. He was still standing near the door, like a sentinel. It was quite imposing.

_'Clever, handsome, and rude, indeed.'_

"Does this mean you'll be going to the lab, then?" Molly blurted, a little too quickly. She gasped as her right hand flew to her mouth. "Oh! I-I didn't… didn't mean…"

Sherlock's nostrils flared. "I will, as soon as I have some samples to take with me."

"Yes," Molly replied in a small voice. "I, um, have some here."

"And the one from last week's case?"

"Ye-yes."

Jim watched the exchange in silence, but he did reach out his left hand and stroke her left hand with his pinkie.

This did not go unnoticed by a pair of narrowed blue eyes.

John frowned and cut in. "Tact, Sherlock…" he whispered. _"Use it."_

"What's the use of 'tact'?" Sherlock bit out. "Truth is better."

"Yes," John sighed, "but there's no need to slay people with it."

"Now, boys…" Jim broke in, his voice admonishing lightly and his hand never leaving Molly's, while Sherlock's steely gaze still hadn't left Jim. "Bickering? _Tsk-tsk._" He grinned in amusement. Molly smiled slightly, but there was still a look of uncertainty lingering on her features.

John wondered if they were going to be asked to leave—again, in Sherlock's case.

Sherlock finally looked at Molly. Everyone was surprised at the speed in which the man's expression changed; it became less intense. Molly held his gaze, and her eyes widened with each passing second. Jim's hand stilled, and slowly moved to his side.

He grinned again.

"Of course," Sherlock said smoothly, removing his scarf, his eyes still on the pathologist. "If you'll just excuse us," he said in a clipped tone, not looking at Jim, but certainly speaking to him, "Molly and I have some work to do."

Jim held up his hands. "Sure! I just popped down here for a minute to say hey, anyway." He looked at Molly. "See you tomorrow, then?"

Molly broke away from Sherlock's stare with a slight gasp. "Ye-yes. Half seven, right?"

Jim nodded, and patted Molly's shoulder. He also nodded at Sherlock, who dipped his chin very slightly in return. Jim then smiled at John. "It was _so_ nice to meet you," he said, scooting around Sherlock and exiting the morgue.

Molly pointedly ignored Sherlock and moved away to retrieve her clipboard, which was hanging up on the other side of the room. She also washed her hands in the sink nearby.

"Well, that was… interesting." John said, amused.

"How so?" Sherlock asked, finally looking away from Molly.

"The temperature is usually cold in here," the doctor remarked casually, "but the moment we walked in, I could swear it dropped to damned frigid—then, just moments ago, I thought maybe I'd need to strip this jumper off, because it was almost like a sauna."

"Don't be ridiculous, John."

Molly returned at that moment, cleared her throat, stared down at her clipboard, and began talking about her findings: "Carrie Gramble. Sexual assault, burn marks, strangulation, stab wound, and facial trauma."

"Sexual assault?" John echoed grimly.

"Yes, " Molly said, mournfully. She reached out to touch the dead girl's forehead. "She had to endure too much before her end. It's sad."

Sherlock finally moved from his spot by the door and closer to the cadaver. "Tell me what you think about the cause of the facial wound?"

Molly's eyes widened in surprise, and her jaw dropped, which she quickly closed.

He was asking _her_ for information? Did the world end and no one tell her?

She cleared her throat, and began: "Well, it appears to be something short, round, smooth, and definitely made of wood, based on a few splinters I extracted," Molly said, business-like, still looking down. She didn't trust herself to look up at Sherlock. Maybe looking at John would be better? So, she lifted her gaze and looked at the doctor. "I've ruled out a cricket bat, because that's too wide and flat. It might be a—"

"Club—or a night stick," Sherlock interjected.

"Ye-es," Molly's glance slide sideways, at only for the barest of seconds. '_Don't look at him,'_ she thought. _'Don't look at him.'_ She swallowed the nervousness that started to rise, and looked at John. "The splinters I found were natural wood, so it wouldn't be one of the types of night sticks most police or guards carry nowadays."

"I'd like to see those splinters, to compare the analysis results to my findings at the flat," Sherlock said, holding out his hand expectantly.

"Ask…" John commanded in a low voice. Molly's eyes shifted between the two men, confusion crossing her features.

"I'd like to see those splinters," Sherlock repeated, this time his tone was a bit softer. "Please. May I?"

Molly nodded, and turned to the table along the wall, under the observation windows. In a covered petri dish, there were some wood flecks. She also passed the carpet fiber and skin sample from last week's case to Sherlock, who thanked her, albeit awkwardly.

"Miss Gramble's bruises were inflicted by the same club that damaged her face. The blade that pierced her heart, was quite length, with a pointy tip, sharp edge, and a partially serrated mid-section. Not quite sure what would match that description, though."

"Ninja Long Blade," Sherlock offered.

"Oh. Oh, good," Molly made a note on the clipboard, then stopped and grimaced. "Oh! No, I don't mean 'good for her', because, no, that wasn't good. I meant 'good, glad we know that, now.'" She rattled off, before putting her hand on her forehead. "Oh… forget it."

'Tell me about the burns… please," Sherlock said.

"There were definitely two different causes for the burn marks. One of them was L&B cigarettes—two packs, at the very least. The other was a Cuban cigar—give or take three. Her hair was cut by the very knife that stabbed her. But she was dead before her head was smashed and heart stabbed, having been strangled. I need to run some tests on the fibers around her throat, but it looks like a simple cotton rope did the job."

John was listening to this with fascination. Typically, Sherlock was haughtily informing everyone of the who's, what's, where's, when's, why's, and how's, but he was remaining mostly silent and allowing _Molly_ to provide the information?

Did he, John, blink for too long, missing the sneaky replacement of his friend? Or did Sherlock hit his head on the lift on his way down here? There were some strange things going on here.

"Many of her injuries are quite similar to Millicent MacGregor's, don't you agree?" Sherlock asked.

"Millicent MacGregor?" Molly repeated. "Was that the Queen Mary student missing for a while? Her funeral was today, correct?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied. He pulled his cell phone out and tapped a few keys, before slipping it back into his pocket. "Odd, don't you think, how both girls have the same causes of death, similar trauma—and their features are the same? Even stranger still: Miss Gramble was found in Miss MacGregor's grave."

"Hang on," John interjected, "What are you implying? Serial killer?"

Molly mulled over this information, and nodded. "It fits, though. Maybe we should call Greg."

"It's all ready been taken care of."

oooooooooooooooo

A well-rested DI Greg Lestrade met the trio in the la. He carried a large cup of coffee in one hand and a file folder under an arm. Sherlock was at the microscope, engrossed in the splinters, while Molly was prepping the carpet fiber, and both were waiting on the results from the stone Sherlock found in Miss Gramble's shoe.

John had been texting Jeanette, setting up another date.

"What's this about a serial killer?" Greg began, upon entering the room.

It took a few minutes, but Molly and Sherlock filled him in; the pathologist told him what she'd found, with the consulting detective interjecting occasionally. This seemed to bolster Molly's confidence. She brightened when Sherlock smiled and nodded his approval.

Greg whipped out his phone and called Sally Donovan, and told her to set up interviews with the MacGregor and Gramble families; he wanted to find out what things they had in common. Maybe a handyman, or the girls rode the same tube lines, go to the same primary school… any lead is better than what they had now—nothing.

While he talked to Donovan, and John looked at the file folder of crime scene photographs Greg had brought with him, Sherlock turned to Molly—who had moved closer to Sherlock while they spoke to Lestrade, but to also set down a new slide for Sherlock to study—and asked: "Did you perform the autopsy on Miss MacGregor?"

"No, I-I did not," Molly stuttered.

"Pity." Sherlock frowned. "I was hoping to read the notes.

Molly's eyes focused on Sherlock's mouth. She licked her own lips, absently. "Oh. W-well, those sh-should be around here somewhere, since the death was, um, very recent."

Sherlock smiled. "Could I see them?

Molly nervously pushed stray strands of hair behind her ear. "Well, I don't know…"

"Hmm," Sherlock responded non-committedly. "So, Is that a new perfume you're wearing?"

"Oh, this?" She sniffed her hand. "It's just-just lemon soap. There's, er, a bar down in morgue, and up here in the, um … yeah, you can use it if you… toilet." Molly turned her face away for a moment, but John looked up and clearly saw the look of anguish there. Molly probably wanted the floor to open up and swallow her.

"Well, I must say it's definitely an improvement over the last scent that clung to you two days ago. What was that, anyway?"

"Chocolate. I mean, chocolate mint."

Sherlock's brow and nose wrinkled in disgust. "It was hideous; one shouldn't wear dessert scents. Whatever happened to just eating the stuff? Don't use it again. It made your skin blotchy."

Molly nodded, her face bright red. She quickly turned around once more and pushed open the door to the supplies room.

_"Coffee, too, Molly!"_ Sherlock called after her.

"Can't you give her a break?" John asked, shaking his head. "One minute you're a complete jackass, then, you're Mince Pie, then you're a berk. What gives, Sherlock?"

"John, don't involve yourself in this," came the flat reply.

"I will involve myself!" John growled. "I like Molly; she's _nice._ She makes coming here with you easier to deal with. So take my advice for once, Sherlock: If you want something, _then just ask her—or get it yourself_." He ended with a hiss.

"I'm busy," Sherlock pouted, "and she wasn't actually doing anything."

"She runs this lab—and the morgue—and she's not your housekeeper!" John nearly shouted. "God, I sound like Mrs. Hudson," he sighed. "Just be kinder to Molly, Sherlock, will you?" John asked. "Her emotions seemed to have been all over the map tonight, thanks to you."

He received a blank look. "I complimented her soap."

"Wow, do you run hot and cold," John said unkindly. "What's gotten into you? No—no, don't tell me; I don't want to know, because—well, I just don't."

"John, stop over-dramatizing," Sherlock grumbled.

John threw his hands in the air. "My point, Sherlock, is that you can't toy with a woman like Molly. She'd probably kill you and cut you up into pieces so small, that no one will ever find you—and she'd get away with it."

"Molly would never do that." Sherlock said confidently.

"For the love of—" John sighed, rubbing his face with both hands. "Never mind," he snapped. "Forget it."

Lestrade, having hung up his phone several minutes previous, chuckled, clearly amused. There was always entertainment to be found whenever Sherlock was around—as long as it wasn't involving Lestrade, of course. If anyone would bother to ask his opinion, he'd say he agreed with John; Molly shouldn't be on the receiving of Sherlock's sharp words either. Molly Hooper was a nice girl, and it was obvious she liked Sherlock… well, obvious to everyone except Sherlock. For all his amazing wit, keen ability to observe the unnoticed, and quick thinking, Sherlock definitely did not see how badly Molly adored him. What a shame.

oooooooooooooooo

Molly wanted to kick herself for saying "toilet" to Sherlock. _How embarrassing!_ Why couldn't she get a complete thought out of her mouth whenever he was around? She was perfectly fine any other time, but as soon as he entered the room, her mouth disconnected from her brain. It was ridiculous! She was a doctor, for goodness sake; she went to university, studied hard, and got top marks! She deals with the dead and their families every day! She shouldn't let some man—no matter how smart or gorgeous he is—get the best of her.

Still, some days, she wondered if she should just don a 'dunce' cap. Sherlock treated her as such. It wasn't too bad today, though. She was shocked that he allowed her to talk so much, telling Detective Lestrade what they knew.

But, sometimes, she wanted to punch Sherlock in the face for some of the things he said, but she just couldn't bring herself to do it. The verbal abuse likely to follow would bring her close to death. True, she died just a little each time he insulted her, and her heart always—_always_—hoped that would be the last time, but her brain knew better. Still, she cared about him, because despite his aversion to sentiment, Molly believed there was a good, warm-hearted man underneath the cold marble exterior that was afraid to let emotion get in the way.

Sherlock thought it was so horrible, and sometimes it was, but he had never learned to balance both his brilliance and his emotions together. He kept one locked away, allowing the other to shine, but this tipped the scale too much to one side, leaving him numb.

She had very rare glimpses in the past, in the way he treated his landlady, Mrs. Hudson. Molly had been to 221 B Baker Street six times in the past, to bring body parts to Sherlock, and saw with her own eyes Sherlock's affection for the woman who was "not his housekeeper". Molly felt a little jealous when she witnessed Sherlock hug and kiss Mrs. Hudson. The way he smiled at her was wonderful, too; there was true joy there, albeit briefly.

Molly wanted to see that joy when he looked upon her, too. She wanted caresses, kisses, and so much more.

If Sherlock could be kind to the older woman, he could be kind to her, too, right? If Molly ran away, she might never get a chance to see the stone fall away to reveal the light inside, to see the scale balance properly. So she stayed.

Unfortunately, while trying to chip away at his exterior, he was hammering down hers—and he was doing a better job. Which one of them would break down completely first?

Molly didn't want think about the answer that was so glaringly obvious.

Her pocket vibrated; she pulled her cell out from her lab coat pocket, and saw she'd had a text from Jim.

_Everything's going to be all right. :) – Jim xo_

The corners of her mouth lifted cheerlessly. Here was a perfectly nice guy, and she would lose out on being loved if she didn't make a better effort to be part of a relationship.

_Any relationship is better than none,_ she thought, _or a one-sided fantasy._

So she replied: _I know. Can't wait to see you tomorrow. :) Molly xo_

Almost immediately, her phone vibrated: _Dream of me when you sleep. – Jim xo _

Her reply: _I will. – Molly xo_

But she knew whom she'd really dream about. On impulse, she created a new text message: _Dearest Sherlock,_ _I dream of you every night—and wake crying every morning. What can this mean? Love, Molly xxx_

She stared at it for a long minute, her finger hovering over "Send". But, Molly could never send this to him; he wouldn't understand—wouldn't care. So she saved it instead, adding to the growing collection of unsent texts to Sherlock Holmes.


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N: From this chapter on, it's my entry for Camp NaNoWriMo. I hope I can hit 50K words before the end of July! **

**Also, my birthday is tomorrow (2 July). I'll be... old. :/**

**oooooooooooooooooooooo**

Chapter 3

Sherlock was certain that Miss Gramble had been in a recently-built home around the time of her death. He had been correct about the carpet fibers; they were part of a large roll of purchased by J. Thompson Builders, who were erecting homes in South Bank. This same builder had been placing crushed limestone in some of the driveways.

Sherlock and John went to see the builder, who gave them a list of properties that had the crushed limestone driveways. There were seven.

They hit pay dirt in the second house.

Some had been there, with a van—from the tire marks in the gravel—and inside, there was rope, duct tape, several rolls of plastic sheeting, and a coffee can full of spent cigarettes. They phoned Lestrade, who sent a team to collect the evidence and take photographs.

But Sherlock kept thinking about what they'd found. There was still no evidence of a club, there didn't seem to be any blood—not even blood splatter—anywhere.

He spent some time in the lab at St. Bart's, going over the samples. The rope fibers matched the ones around Miss Gramble's neck, but there were no prints on any of the items—not even the cigarettes. They tried to extract saliva from the cigarette butts, but there was none. Sherlock deduced the cigarettes had been allowed to burn naturally, then used intermittently on Miss Gramble.

John knew Sherlock was frustrated, and he did try to help his friend by pouring over the crime scene photos, and even looking into the MacGregor case files, but even then, it was not remedying the situation.

"The MacGregor girl," John began, one morning as he looked at the photographs of her arms, "she was quite the drug addict."

Sherlock, who was staring out the window, said nothing.

"These marks on her arm—there are so many!" He moved closer to the window where Sherlock was standing, and held up the picture to the light to get a better look. The taller man glanced at the picture before turning away.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out his vibrating phone.

_See me.-MH_

Sherlock checked the time. "I'm going out," he said, suddenly, returning the phone to his pocket.

"For what?" John asked, looking up from the photograph.

"Milk."

Confusion and disbelief crossed John's features. "_Really?_ You never get the milk." Suspicion was immediate. "Where are you _really_ going?"

"To get milk." Sherlock reached for his scarf and Belstaff.

"Yeah, sure," John replied skeptically. He turned back to the photograph.

Sherlock said nothing further; he had swept out of the flat.

oooooooooooooooooo

Mycroft sat quietly in the only room in the Diogenes Club that allowed speech; he was waiting for his brother, having been informed, via a discreetly placed note under his teacup, that Sherlock had left his flat, and was on his way.

Sherlock arrived within ten minutes, and was escorted into the room where Mycroft waited. He gestured for his younger brother to sit, which was obeyed. Mycroft poured a cup of tea and handed it to Sherlock, who took it and nodded graciously.

Neither said anything for several minutes, both trying to deduce the other. Mycroft spoke first.

"I understand that you are looking into Miss Macgregor's case."

"I am."

Mycroft's eyebrow rose. "It's closed. She was found and was buried by her family."

Sherlock took a sip of tea. "I am aware of that. However, current circumstances warrant my looking into it."

Mycroft set down his teacup and lifted a teacake from the plate near his elbow. "Ah, Miss Gramble."

Sherlock watched his brother take a bite of the cake, and thought about the last time he actually ate. _Was it really two days ago?_ "Yes."

After the teacake was gone, Mycroft discreetly wiped his mouth on a napkin. "Such a tragedy, really. Both women were bright, young things."

Sherlock had had enough of the small talk. "Why did you want to see me?"

Mycroft jumped right into it. "The house you found the items in—in regards to Miss Gramble—is actually a safe-house for those transitioning into the Witness Protection Program."

Sherlock said nothing.

"We were supposed to move three people and some sparse equipment into that house in the afternoon of the very day you went there and found the items," Mycroft explained. "We don't know how those things got in there—and we are looking into that—but the safe-house has been compromised."

"And this is my concern, why?"

"One of the three people was a woman named Laura Kitterman."

Sherlock recalled this named almost immediately. Laura Kitterman had 'died' several months ago, in June, having been a victim of a sexual assault, severe beating around the face, and strangulation.

She had just moved to the London area from Seattle, Washington, in the United States, to work for Barclay's.

And she was a blonde-haired woman.

"How?" Sherlock inquired.

Mycroft knew what his brother was asking. "I haven't the foggiest notion how she survived," he said, after taking a sip of his tea. "But she was on Miss Hooper's table, in the body bag, when she gasped back to life. Miss Hooper… well, did not take it well."

One corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up in a smile. He could imagine what Molly's actual reaction was; the quiet pathologist was so used to people being—and remaining—dead, that she must have fainted—because Sherlock couldn't imagine Molly screaming; it just wasn't her style—when Miss Kitterman suddenly_ wasn't._

He wondered if Mycroft would ever allow him to see the security footage from that evening?

"Miss Kitterman couldn't not remember what her attacker looked like, having suffered permanent memory loss from the head trauma. She did not lose an eye, like the two other women, however. But while she recovered in the hospital, she screamed a name over and over in her sleep."

"Oh?"

"Moriarty."

Sherlock froze, his cup hovering just above his lips. He knew that name; it was seared into his brain when the serial-killing cabbie's scream resonated around the room at the college of further education: _"MORIARTY!"_

Things were starting to get personal. Sherlock needed to find out more about this Moriarty. Hopefully, there wouldn't be more dead bodies in the meantime.

But he doubted it.

When he returned to the flat, John asked him why he returned empty-handed.

"You were supposed to get the milk." John's none-too-gentle reminder hit Sherlock's ears as soon as he walked into the flat.

"They were out."

"Tesco's didn't have milk?" John asked dubiously.

"Odd, isn't it? Go tomorrow and see if it's restocked."

oooooooooooooooooo

_Two days later_

After one of her rare early shifts, Molly went to 221B Baker Street with a small orange cooler. She'd shoved it in her oversized bag, and walked past security, like she did whenever she smuggled body parts out of St. Bart's for Sherlock Holmes.

This time, it was toes. Why the man wanted those, she couldn't imagine, but she brought them, because it was what Sherlock wanted. He didn't exactly ask; he more or less demanded them. She wished he had retained John's suggestion of asking whenever he wanted something—and to remember to say thank you— without prompting, but Molly didn't hold out too much hope for either to happen.

Mrs. Hudson let her in with a smile. "Hello, dear," she said, stepping back so Molly could enter. "Come in, come in! It's frightfully cold out there. Would you like some tea?"

"No, thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I just have a delivery for Sherlock." She held up her bag, and the top of the cooler poked out.

"Good heavens, not more body parts, I hope?" When Molly looked at the floor sheepishly, Mrs. Hudson tutted. "Well, as long as he keeps that refrigerator clean, then I say have at it. The boys are upstairs, going over some files, and cooking—although I believe the latter is John's doing." She leaned in and whispered, "It sounded like they had a bit of a row earlier, about the upcoming Christmas Party, so be careful." She patted Molly's upper arm, then retreated to her flat.

Molly smiled and began trudging up the stairs. She had not gotten halfway up when Sherlock's voice floated down to her. "The door is open, Molly."

She shuffled into the doorway of the flat, and looked about. Above the fireplace, there was a collage of crime scene photographs—the mirror that was usually placed on the mantle was sitting on the floor next to the chair on the left, facing the other—and Sherlock was standing in front of them, staring intently. John was sitting at the desk, typing on his computer, and Molly guessed he was writing on his blog.

"Come in, Molly; don't hover in the doorway," Sherlock instructed crisply, not turning around.

John looked up then, with a smile. He closed his laptop and leapt to his feet. "Hello, Molly. How are you?"

"Fine. I have some things for Sherlock."

John snorted. "Parts, no doubt." He held out his hand, and Molly opened the cooler and extracted a thick plastic bag filled with gelatinous fluid and toes. "I'll take them and put them in the ice box. Sherlock?" He called over his shoulder.

Sherlock waved his hand in acknowledgement, continuing to gaze at the pictures.

John returned and offered Molly some tea. She was about to accept, until Sherlock's voice cut in.

"Don't bother, John. Molly can't stay for tea. She has to leave to go on another _date_."

Molly's eyes swung towards Sherlock's back in disbelief. "How did—?"

"I've been living with him for a while, and still haven't learned not to ask," John laughed.

"Run along, Molly; you don't want to be late for your evening with _Jim."_ Sherlock said—and it wasn't difficult to miss the venom in the last word.

John shrugged at Molly, who turned red.

"Act-actually, I don't," Molly returned. "I cancelled this evening; I wasn't sure when I was going to leave work, and then I, um, wanted to come by here for Sh—um, to drop off the stuff."

This made Sherlock turn just slightly towards them.

"Well, do you have other plans?" John asked.

"Does feeding one's cat, lounging in pyjamas, and watching crap telly alone count as plans?" Molly laughed. When John smiled in sympathy, Molly turned red again. "Oh, well, I don't mean I make it a habit of doing such a thing…" her voice trailed off.

"Don't be ridiculous, Molly," Sherlock corrected unkindly. "Of course you do; until _your current beau_, you regularly sat in front of your television with only your cat for company."

John sighed and rolled his eyes. He mouthed "Sorry!" to Molly. She shrugged, even though she felt Sherlock had punched her in the gut. He made her sound so pathetic.

_'I am, though, aren't I?_', she thought bitterly.

Anger simmered in John. His friend was being such a dick. Molly had risked her job—once again—to get body parts to Sherlock, and he insulted her! He felt he needed to make up for Sherlock's rudeness. "Well, then!" he announced. "You can stay for dinner. I made pasta."

Molly _and Sherlock_ protested—which did not go unnoticed by Molly—but John was adamant, and helped Molly out of her coat. He directed her to the chair on the left, but she sat in the one on the right, which made the Consulting Detective inhale sharply.

But she didn't notice, because John distracted her with a cup of tea.

Molly deeply drew in a breath through her nose as she leaned back ever-so-slightly in the comfortable chair. Her skin and ears suddenly tingled in awareness; this seat held Sherlock's scent. _This was his chair._ She then saw his frown, and wanted to leap up and move to another seat, but John was shoving a tin of cookies in her face.

"Mrs. H made these this morning," he said. "I hope you aren't allergic to chocolate?"

"No, she's not, John," Sherlock said sarcastically. "Just look at her jumper. She has a chocolate stain on it, from when she spilled a cup of hot cocoa earlier this evening."

Molly was mortified to the roots of her hair, but took a cookie and shoved it in her mouth. She refused to look at John—who had tactfully moved back into the kitchen to finish preparing supper—or Sherlock.

_'Why does he do that? Why is he so horrid?' _Molly's mind reeled. Suddenly she felt her eyelids prickle. She turned her face away._ 'Oh, god. Please don't cry. Please don't,'_ Molly repeated to herself over and over. '_Don't let him see how his words cut you. He's like a shark; those tears will be blood in the water, and he'll just keep going, making it worse.'_

But a single traitorous tear rolled down her cheek. Molly brushed it off, hating herself so much at that moment—and Sherlock, too, just a little.

_'I shouldn't have stayed. I should leave now.'_

Reflexively, she stood up, hearing Sherlock inhale sharply; he obviously had not expecting the sudden movement.

"What are you doing?" he growled.

"I-I have to go," Molly stuttered, moving across the room towards her things.

"Why?"

"I-I have to... well, that is…" she stopped and took a deep breath. "Thank you for the dinner invitation—"

"**I** did not invite you to dinner." Sherlock continued to glower.

This made Molly _really _want to cry. She had always hoped Sherlock would invite her to a meal, but he obviously found the idea repulsive. "I-I know," she stammered, "I was… was trying to be polite."

She was shrugging on her coat when John returned to the room. He looked at Molly—and then Sherlock—in confusion. "What's going on here?"

"Molly has something else to do, apparently," Sherlock replied, his voice slightly mocking, "So, she is leaving."

John reached out and took hold of Molly's shoulders. Molly glanced over at Sherlock and saw those amazing blue eyes narrow; he was trying to deduce her—or was scaling another verbal attack.

Something in her twisted painfully.

_'Get out of here,'_ her inner voice cried out. '_Get out now, before something truly devastating flies out of his beautiful mouth!'_

She wanted to vomit.

But John was talking to her.

"Molly, are you sure?" The doctor's eyes were filled with concern. "I made plenty."

"Yes," she said breathlessly.

_'Where is that little voice of encouragement __**now**__?'_, she thought wildly. _'It's being awfully silent!'_

"I-I appreciate your kindness, John," she continued, "but…" She trailed off, as she looked over at Sherlock. The storm in those icy eyes frightened her. '_Why was he so angry? What did I do?'_

Sherlock abruptly turned on his heel to look at the crime scene photographs once more. His body hummed with anger.

**_'What did I do?' _**Molly's soul wanted to scream out loud. She was utterly and devastatingly confused.

Overwhelmed, she wrenched herself out of John's grip, and ran down the stairs, the cooler in her bag banging against her leg. She heard John call out her name, then yell at Sherlock.

_"Damn it, Sherlock! Why do you _**always**_ do that to her?"_

She ran out into the cold air, and looked up and down the street. There were no taxis at that moment. It figured; she tried to make a quick getaway, and it just didn't work out.

_'The story of my life.'_

She stood on the curb, tears falling freely now. She shouldn't have stayed. She shouldn't have sat down. She shouldn't have… she just shouldn't have.

When it came to Sherlock, there were **a lot** of _shouldn't haves_.

A hand clasped he shoulder and turned her around, causing her to squeak loudly.

It was John, and he looked torn between anger and concern.

"Molly, I'm so, _so_ sorry," he said, his voice straining with worry.

"It's fine," Molly mumbled.

"'It's fine'? _Really?"_ John echoed in disbelief. "And that's why you're crying? Because 'it's fine'_?"_

Molly didn't respond.

"I don't know what goes on in your head, Molly Hooper," he continued, "but I do know that it's completely obvious you—_feel something_—for Sherlock. I don't know why, because he treats you like shit, but I can see it on your face. One day, he's going to break you."

"I know. Odd that _he_ doesn't see it," she replied bitterly.

This time, John didn't respond.

She gave a small, sad smile. "It's okay, John."

"No, it's not. It's not okay," he said shaking his head forcefully. "If you want, I can go back up there and punch him."

She smiled then, and gave a little laugh. "No. No, don't do that."

"Molly, let me make it up to you," John pleaded. "Come to our Christmas Party."

Molly shook her head. "Oh, I don't think Sherlock would want me there."

"Well, I do, and I know Mrs. H would. Besides," John said with a smile, "you could always threaten him with cutting off his body parts supply if he's mean. That may make him be more tolerable for the evening."

Molly laughed out loud at this, brushing the tears away. "I could."

"Then it's settled," John said. "Be here Christmas Eve, around seven o'clock."

Just then, a cab pulled up to the curb, and John opened the door for her, and she slid into the vehicle. He closed the door, smiled, and waved. Molly waggled her fingers, as she gave the driver her address. John turned away as the black taxi drove off.

No one noticed Sherlock Holmes watching the entire scene from the window.

That night, while John ate his pasta in angry silence, Sherlock played a self-composed tune on the violin in his bedroom. The slow, deep melody was typically soothing, but, tonight, his soul refused to be appeased.

He was angry with her for leaving so abruptly. He knew he was being mean, but the words wouldn't stop when they started flowing. He wanted to shout at her to fight back and stand up to him—to _make him_ stop the words, because he just couldn't when it came to her—and he didn't know why.

Sherlock played on.

He recalled looking in the mirror on the floor when Molly turned away from him; the tears on her face burned into his memory.

Sherlock felt something he usually refused to acknowledge: _regret and shame._

_Damn it._ He was far too intellectually superior to be _feeling_. He was angry with himself most of all for this_._

It really was all her fault.

When he finally finished the piece, he took his handkerchief and wiped away the saltwater tears on the fragile wood.

He placed the violin in its case, and sat on the edge of his bed. He stared at the wall while dozens of thoughts ran through his head:

_'Miss MacGregor, murder, missing clue, Miss Gramble, Molly, Moriarty, Christmas, John, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, hurtful words, experiments, crime scene pictures, blonde hair, Molly, Mycroft, witness protection program, Molly,_ _Jim—_what ever does Molly see in him? Why didn't she take my advice? What does Jim have that I do not?_, music, John's girlfriend—_whatever her name was_, Lestrade, cemetery, Molly's tears…'_

He doubted this evening would—or could—be deleted.

And then:

_'Molly belonged in my chair. I want her to sit there again.'_

ooooooooooooooooo

When Molly arrived home, she immediately fed Toby, her black and white cat, put on her pyjamas, rummaged through her cupboards, decided to eat a bowl of cereal and an entire bag of crisps, then allowed her pet to curl up on her lap while she watched 'Pride & Prejudice'.

She pretended she was Miss Elizabeth Bennett, and Sherlock was Mr. Darcy.

It made her cry uncontrollably.

As the movie was rolling credits, her cell phone vibrated. She pulled it out and read:

_Hey, Sweet Molly, I missed you this evening. How was work?—Jim xo_

_It was fine.—Molly _

_Are you okay?—Jim xo_

_Yes. I'm just really tired.—Molly_

_Are you sure? If someone upset you, I'll take care of him.—Jim xo_

_I'm sure. But, thank you.—Molly _

_Ah, okay. Get some rest, my Sweet Molly. I'll see you soon.—Jim xo_

_Okay. Good night, Jim.—Molly _

She didn't put away her phone immediately. Molly had one last text to write.

_Dearest Sherlock: Why, why… WHY do you always say such terrible things? I'm tired of crying. What have I ever done to you to make you treat me so horribly? Please… please tell me. Love, Molly xox _

_PS: I really liked your chair. Thank you for allowing me to sit there._

This text, like so many others, went unsent. He must never know.

_'The story of my life.'_


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

_Christmas Eve_

Molly had serious reservations about the Christmas Party at 221B Baker Street. Just four days ago, Sherlock practically physically tossed her out of his flat.

Last night, he showed up at St. Bart's, and during the two hours he sat on the stool and scoured reports and looked at slides on the microscope, he only uttered two whole phrases to her:

_Hello, Molly._

_Good night, Molly._

He didn't tell her to fetch anything; he sought out the things he needed for himself. This shocked Molly, but she didn't say a single word about it. She didn't want to break the truce—however tense it was—between them.

She pretended, instead, that all was well. She took comfort in his nearness.

Molly had decided not to attend the party, but when Sherlock came through those doors to the lab last evening, she immediately changed her mind. She was inexplicably drawn to this man, and had hoped that since it was a holiday, he would be kind to her.

This morning, her day off, she went out and bought a dress. Molly wanted to kick herself for waiting until the last minute, but was relieved to find something that was her size, in black, trimmed with silver, with spaghetti straps. It was cute—and slightly more than she wanted to spend—but she felt beautiful in it. Molly was giddy, because she had earrings and shoes at home to match the dress, too! Granted, she never wore either of them, but now she had an excuse.

As she studied her reflection in the dressing room mirror, she hoped Sherlock would gaze upon her without contempt. If he spoke cordially and smiled at her—with a genuine air, not a 'didn't-reach-his-eyes' smirk he usually reserved for her when he wanted her to run an errand for him—Molly would consider that the best holiday gift she'd ever received.

After she made her purchase, she went into another shop and bought trinkets for John, Mrs. Hudson, Greg, and even Toby, but she just couldn't find anything that suited Sherlock.

Molly wanted to give him a gift that might show him how much she cared about him.

She realized then that she didn't even think about Jim.

Actually, she hadn't heard from or seen him since he texted her a few nights ago.

It was for the best, really; she was too emotionally involved in her one-sided relationship with Sherlock Holmes to be linked to anyone else. She decided then to break up with Jim.

On Christmas Eve.

She flipped out her phone and began typing:

_Jim?—Molly_

The reply was immediate: _Hello, Sweet Molly. Happy Christmas Eve!—Jim xo_

_Same to you.—Molly_

_Uh-oh. My Spidey-Senses are tingling. Something's wrong.—Jim _

_Well, yes.—Molly _

_SIGH. I knew it. You're breaking up with me.—Jim _

_Well…—Molly _

_Oh, Molly, I'm SO disappointed. On Christmas Eve? Via a TEXT? That's kind of crappy, even for you.—J _

_I'm sorry.—Molly _

_Oh, just stop. I don't want to hear it. I do want to know though: is there someone else?—J _

Molly stared at her phone for a moment. How could she answer this? _There is, but I'm invisible to him?_ She rolled her eyes; yes, _that_ made sense.

_Your lack of a quick reply tells me 'yes'.—J _

_I'm not sure I'd say that.—Molly _

_It's him, isn't it? That Sherlock Holmes.—J _

_I'm not dating him!—Molly _

_You want to. I could tell; you were always distracted whenever he was in your orbit. It kind of pissed me off. I thought you were __**my**__ girl.—J _

_Jim, I like you, but I'm not giving you 100 percent of myself, and that's not fair to you.—Molly _

_He's going to hurt you, you know. You're going to soooo regret ever wanting him. You're stupid for playing with that fire.—J _

_Excuse me? I'm not stupid.—Molly _

_Just stop texting me.—J _

_'Ouch,' _Molly thought._ 'That was… weird.' _She'd never broken up with anyone; she hoped she could do it—and do it without problems. It was all ready going to be strange to go to St. Bart's each evening, knowing that her ex-boyfriend was working just a few floors up; she didn't need drama.

So, Molly Hooper went home and wrapped everyone's gifts, showered, and fixed her hair. As she reached for her jewelry box to extract her sparkly earrings, she realized she had the perfect gift for Sherlock also in her jewelry box.

No, it wasn't a ring; that would be too ridiculous.

It was something very personal—a family heirloom. And Molly was _certain_ her father would have approved of Molly's passing them on to a man such as Sherlock.

Granted, Sherlock didn't always treat her well, but he was _Sherlock_. He held everyone at arms' length. He didn't have a list of friends.

Except John.

And Mrs. Hudson.

And Greg Lestrade, who treated Sherlock like a pseudo-son.

_Wait. There __**were**__ people on that list. _

She wished she had been included on that list. She knew Sherlock better than John, for crying out loud. But it wasn't a competition; Sherlock was selective about those he brought into his circle.

It still hurt, though.

Molly had such a hard time trying to explain the complex man to co-workers who made fun of him, but she somehow knew that her father would have understood him. Mr. Hooper had been so much like Sherlock at times; so intelligent, reserved, unusual—but he had a soft spot for his Molly, much like Sherlock did for Mrs. Hudson.

Maybe one day Sherlock would come to think of _her _as his Molly, too.

_A girl could hope._

Still, she went to her jewelry box and retrieved her earrings and what she wanted to give Sherlock. It wasn't a bribe; Molly decided they would look wonderful on Sherlock, and she wanted them to finally see the light of day, and reap the pleasure she'd get from seeing them on him whenever he would visit.

The diamond cufflinks were once her great-grandfather's, which were passed from one son to the next, until they became her father's.

Molly had always, _always_ helped her father with them. From the moment she could stand without falling over, her father taught her how to put the cufflinks in place. She was so proud when she could put them on him without help. She loved how they looked on him—and how he would smile and touch her cheek, telling her he loved her.

_'Dearest Molly, you have a beautiful soul,' He always said. 'Don't hide it away.'_

_'But Papa, no boy will see my soul if they don't look past what's on the outside. They all tell me I'm ugly.'_

_'Dearest Molly, __**boys**__ are stupid. Don't listen to them. When you are older, a very clever __**man**__ will see beyond your shell and observe what's in your heart.'_

_'Besides you? I doubt such a man exists, Papa.'_

_'Oh, my Dearest Molly, my lovely girl, don't ever give up. Everyone has soul mate; it just takes some several lifetimes to find them. I believe you'll find yours in this lifetime… just keep your heart open…'_

He said those words so many times—including with his last breath.

She sighed sadly. She missed her father so much.

Molly received the heirloom after he died. It made her heart break even more; she had no brothers—no siblings, actually—and would probably never have children to pass them on to…

She was over thirty and still unmarried; the odds of her being a wife and mother were very small.

She had thought about those roles with Jim by her side, but that was only briefly—and only while she was awake. Every night, Molly dreamed of another…

_Sherlock Holmes._

She was taking such a chance giving this very special gift to Sherlock; she was giving him a part of her _soul_.

He already had her heart—even if he didn't know it.

Molly threw caution to the wind and wrote a note, placing it in the box:

_Everyone has soul mate; it just takes some people several lifetimes to find them. I believe you'll find yours in this lifetime. Just keep your heart open. Enjoy the cufflinks… they were my father's. I know he'd be all right with you having them; you could've been two peas in a pod. Happy Christmas… xox_

She tucked the cufflinks under the slip of paper, then carefully wrapped it, put a tag on it—_Dearest Sherlock, Love Molly xxx_—and set it on top of the bag of gifts for her friends.

She finished preparing for the party, fed Toby, gave him a loving pat, and turned out the lights. She put on her coat, grabbed up the bag, took a deep breath, and left her flat.

As Molly climbed into a cab, she silently pleaded: _'Please, god—and Papa—don't let him say anything hurtful when he sees this gift. Please, please, please. I just want to see his smile. Please grant me this little Christmas Miracle.'_

ooooooooooooooooo

_Five minutes._

_That's how long it took Sherlock Holmes to stab her heart and kill her._

_She was dying, surely._

_Well, it felt like it._

He was seated when she arrived, and John helped her out of her coat. Everyone thought she was so lovely—and she felt lovely.

She smiled nervously at Sherlock, who ran his eyes over her and the bag of gifts she'd brought.

His gaze narrowed.

_'Uh-oh.'_ Molly thought nervously.

Then he started speaking.

_"I see you've got plans to see your __**boyfriend**__. You're serious about him."_

"Sorry, what?" she asked stupidly. '_Did he mean Jim?'_ Of course he meant Jim; that was the only guy he'd seen her with.

_"In fact you're seeing him tonight."_ Sherlock said, so sure of himself.

Molly fidgeted nervously. "But I'm not dat—"

"Take a day, off, Sherlock," John scolded his friend, his tone clearly exasperated.

Greg thrust a glass of wine at Sherlock. "Shut up and have a drink."

_But no…_

Sherlock had to _say something._

"_Oh, come on, surely you've all seen the present at the top of the bag…"_ He said, drawing attention to it.

Her special gift.

**_The piece of her soul._**

Molly gasped worriedly.

**_'No, no, no,'_** she thought, feeling panicky. **_'Not now.'_**

But he went on: _"…perfectly wrapped with a bow, while the others are snap-dash at best. Must be something special, then."_

He reached over and picked it up.

**_'Stop talking. Stop it, Sherlock!'_**, her brain screamed, but her mouth wouldn't co-operate—and she was frozen in shock. She stood there, mute, while he brandished his verbal blade.

_"The shade of red echoes her lipstick—either an unconscious association, one that she's deliberately trying to encourage…" _

It was as if he pushed the tip of the blade onto her exposed skin, drawing blood.

**_'Please, stop… It hurts_**_.__**' **_

Molly had to look away; she didn't want to see the dagger as it was being shoved into her chest.

_"…either way, Miss Hooper has loooove on her mind…"_ Sherlock mocked, grinning at her in an ever-so-unfriendly way, thrusting the verbal knife deeper.

**_'Oh, god, this is not the way it was supposed to happen. You're hurting me…'_**

Everyone was looking away. They knew it was happening, but no one—not even Molly—could stop it.

_'The fact that she's serious about him is clear from the fact that she's giving him a gift at all…" _

He was pressing the knife deeper now; she could feel it between her ribs. Molly's life was ebbing away.

**_'Why, why, WHY, Sherlock?' _**her heart cried.

Molly couldn't form words with her mouth; her body was shutting down. Only her eyes, ears, and thoughts seemed to be working in perfect order.

Molly noticed John's face, then. He was** livid**—angrier than he had been when standing on the street with her a few days earlier.

Sherlock barreled on: _"…that would suggest hopes of a long-term relationship."_

She had hoped—prayed, actually, every damned day—_and every damned night_—for a beautiful relationship with the man in front of her, because she had deemed him worthy—_this man who was now slaying her_—but it had been for naught.

She'd chose unwisely.

**_'The story of my life.'_**

Sherlock stampeded forth: _"And the fact that she's seeing him tonight is obvious from her makeup and what she's wearing…."_

She loved her dress! It was special—_it was for __**him!**_ But, now, she wanted to rip it off and chuck it into the rubbish bin; it was ugly and smeared with her blood. Her soul was bleeding, and she couldn't stop it.

**_'It really hurts, Papa. I'm scared.'_**

Sherlock carried on: _"...Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts..."_

Then he opened the tag.

_Dearest Sherlock… Love Molly xxx_

Molly closed her eyes.

**_'Papa… you were wrong…'_**

The room exploded into silence.

_And Molly Hooper died._


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

In those few seconds of total silence, Sherlock finally, _finally,_ saw Molly—and his verbal blade buried in her heart, all the way up to its hilt.

The light in her eyes—the light he always trusted to be there, even when he was at his worst—was gone.

_Oh, god._

**_Why didn't she stop him?_**

No, that was wrong. He needed to place blame where it should really go: **_why couldn't he stop himself?_**

Because of _Jim._

And he'd been **_wrong._**_ Didn't she try to say they weren't dating anymore? _He had dismissed that tidbit until just now. How convenient.

_'It was always something.'_

Sherlock placed his hand over the top of the gift, ready to open it….

_But Molly Hooper suddenly sprang to life._

And she was _different._

She wrapped her hand around the hilt, pulled it with incredible force, and hurled it at the floor.

She was _incensed._

ooooooooooooooooo

This is the story of how Molly Hooper died—and came to life again.

She was always a nice girl, smart, observant, and always looking for acceptance, even if it meant being the brunt of jokes or verbal abuse. She always allowed people in because her father asked her to, hoping that one day one of those people would be smart and special enough to see the rare gift she kept hidden: her beautiful soul.

However, in her eagerness to find that person, she got lost along the way and allowed people to trample on her—people like Sherlock Holmes.

_But no more._

He killed her with the lingual blade he carried in his black suit jacket. He slayed her in front of their friends, but she managed—_somehow_—to reboot and pull it out and smash it on the ground.

_Maybe __**this**__ was her Christmas Miracle._

In the stunned silence, Molly Hooper found her voice at last.

First, she snatched the gift from Sherlock's hands; he didn't deserve _that_ any more.

Then, she stepped closer to him, so close that she could feel his breath on her hair. Before she 'died', she would have _loved_ to be this close to Sherlock. _But not now._ She grabbed his lapel with her free hand—making their audience gasp—and yanked him forward so she could whisper in his ear:

"You have always, **_always_** said horrible things to me," Molly said with a deadly calm. **_"Every time._** I was so patient, so understanding—and **_always_** disappointed. You made me cry every time. **_Always._** I thought there was something faulty with **_me_**_,_ but no; **you're** defective, Sherlock Holmes. You once told me that sentiment was a weakness. **You were wrong,** but will arrogantly continue to believe you're correct, until it's too late."

She let go of him then.

John had leapt to his feet at this point, at first concerned that Sherlock was going to hurt Molly physically for grabbing him, but then worried that he'd need to intervene, to prevent Molly from injuring Sherlock.

After all, Molly cut up cadavers for a living.

Sherlock said nothing; he was watching Molly now, looking at her as he did a crime scene, taking everything in, to sort out later and come up with a solution.

Molly made no move to grab the bag of gifts. She lifted her chin defiantly and walked calmly to where her coat was hung, snapping it up. She paused in the doorway and looked back at Sherlock. He stood there, that beautiful man, and did nothing, said nothing. There was no reaction, other than him silently sizing her up.

She felt the disappointment rising up—and stomped it down. She reached up and snatched the bow in her hair, and tossed that down, too. She was done here.

Her gaze swept over her dumbfounded friends. At this point, she would have normally apologized—_profusely_—but right now she was too angry to care.

Sherlock's icy eyes burned through her as they stared each other down.

She couldn't, wouldn't, _didn't_ blink as she spoke one last time.

"Do not _ever_ speak to me again, Sherlock Holmes. Do not text me, do not show up at St. Bart's or my flat ever again. Do not send John—or anyone else—either. I will _make_ Greg arrest you for harassment. I am _through_ playing your game; it's impossible to win."

Molly took one last look at the stunned group of people gaping at her. "Try to have a Happy Christmas, everyone," she said flatly.

And she swept out of 221B Baker Street and out into the chilly night, still clutching the gift intended for Sherlock.

As she waited for a cab, she pulled out her phone. It was like a second nature at this point.

_Dearest Sherlock: I hate you. You had something so precious in your hand, and you threw it away. You will never know what it was, either. You don't deserve it. Still, I understand now: the game is over. You win. Enjoy your Christmas. Love, Molly xxx _

She looked at this text through the tears she swore she wouldn't cry, and was about to close her phone, but a something buried so deep clawed its way to the surface… and impulsively she continued the message:

_PS: Do you think, maybe, you'd ever change your mind… your heart? I might do._

Damn; that light would never be extinguished. Her father was correct; Molly's soul was beautiful—and strong.

She saved this text, as she always did, and slipped it back into her coat pocket when a cab pulled up alongside.

She might have a beautiful soul, but when she returned home, she was deleting ALL of those saved texts. Sherlock Holmes did not deserve another chance to see into her soul.

ooooooooooooooooo

The silver bow that had been in her hair was on the doorway floor. It looked lonely.

_Broken._

Much like Molly Hooper was.

Sherlock bent down and picked it up, touched it lightly with his long fingers, and trudged back to his room.

He was tired; the battle had worn him out. He may have stabbed Molly, but she had knocked him out with a sledgehammer.

The pain in his chest was overwhelming; he needed to escape, to run… to numb it somehow. He wanted a cigarette. No, he wanted—needed—something stronger. He went to the window and looked at the fire escape just beyond.

It would be so easy to leave, to get what he craved to stop the pain.

He thought about John in the other room—John, his friend. John would be so disappointed. He'd probably abandon Sherlock.

No, leaving to find a dealer would not work. Sherlock would have to deal with this problem without drugs or nicotine.

It was ridiculous, really—and it his was own bloody fault.

He thought about Molly, slayed so brutally… but when she rose up, like a Phoenix from the ashes, he was so entranced, he couldn't, wouldn't speak.

Sherlock wanted to know what Molly had to say—and she didn't disappoint, that was certain.

During her speech, he had absorbed every detail: her copper brown hair, the lemony scent of her skin, the steely glint in her eyes, her low, husky voice, her delightful dress….

He gathered all the information he'd need to make a proper deduction—he was unmatched at that—and quickly concluded that he'd been _very_ wrong about Molly Hooper. Hadn't John warned him—several times—to be nice to her? He should have followed that advice more closely.

_Should've, would've, could've_… and all those stupid rules and _feelings._ They were _dangerous._

And ignoring them had just lost him a friend.

Was Molly a friend? John would say no; Molly was someone Sherlock used, lied to, and treated badly.

_Why?_

He already knew one answer: _Pride._

Molly Hooper was clever. There were times where Sherlock could see her deducing him. This was _not _supposed to happen; _he_ was supposed to deduce _others_. He couldn't have Molly figuring him out; she would just abuse him.

So, he hurt her, to make sure she knew her place.

If he was really honest with himself—and he almost never was—he _knew_ she wouldn't take advantage of him. She was one of four people he'd trust his life with.

John, Mrs. Hudson, and DI Lestrade were the others.

Sometimes Mycroft. _Sometimes._

Damn his pride.

Another answer: _Jealousy._

He'd sort of come to terms with this. He did not like that _Jim_ that Molly insisted on dating. There was something off about him. Sherlock had trouble deducing this, and that bothered him, because it was so rare that it occurred.

Was Sherlock jealous of _Jim from IT_—or jealous of Molly?

Sherlock didn't have enough data to form a conclusion, but he knew he was worried Molly wouldn't be around any more. Not because he wouldn't be able to get parts. He really could get them anywhere.

He just wanted a constant excuse to see Molly. She had a light that comforted him, even when he was being cruel to her, and it became an addiction.

And because of his _pride_, he wouldn't ever again get another hit.

This invoked _Sadness._

_'Bloody hell! There were too many __**distractions.**__'_

But since Molly forced him to explore them, he thought about them for just a little longer.

He looked at his violin, his fingers itching to pick it up and play that damned melody always, _always_ in head.

No; he didn't want to disturb John. _Oh, the irony._

So, Sherlock sat very still on the edge of his bed and simply let his mind wander some more.

There were three other emotions he was extremely concerned about. _Fear_, which enveloped _Happiness_, which enveloped—

He _refused_ to name the last one.

No, he wasn't afraid of Molly. He was, however, fearful of the one emotion that was always pushing against one heavily locked room in his mind. It was constantly beating on the door, howling and clawing, trying to get free.

The other emotions had slipped through tiny cracks to come out and rear their ugly heads occasionally. When this occurred, he simply placed them in other rooms.

Sherlock _refused_ to open that door to put those other emotions back. The one he feared the most would escape. It could never be let out; never be allowed to see the light. It had been kept hidden in the dark for so long, it was easy to deduce what looked like now: a monstrous beast that would consume him as soon as look at him.

And Molly Hooper had just hit that door with Thor's Hammer.

ooooooooooooooooo

No one felt like celebrating after Molly left.

John handed gifts to everyone, including the ones from Molly, but no one opened any, placing them in little bags or coat pockets, filing out the door quietly.

Jeanette kissed John's cheek, patted his arm, and walked out with Greg, who looked like one of his children had been seriously injured. Mrs. Hudson tutted quietly and began cleaning, not once telling John she was 'not their housekeeper', putting away the food—in her own refrigerator, thank you!

Harry, John's sister, actually hugged her brother, stunning both of them. John wisely kept silent. Mike Stamford had clapped John's shoulder and gave him a sympathetic look; he knew how childish Sherlock could be when something unpredictable happened, and felt sorry for John.

Sherlock, in the meantime, had simply retreated quietly to his room; there was dramatic scene—well, no further dramatic scenes—and there had been no need to admonish him; Molly had done that all on her own.

When only Mrs. Hudson remained, John walked towards his friend's closed bedroom door. He would raise his hand to knock, but thought better of it, and walked away.

John did this four times in twenty minutes.

"He just needs some time, dear." Mrs. Hudson told John.

But John worried; it was too quiet in Sherlock's room. He had to know if his friend was all right. After Mrs. Hudson had gone downstairs for the last time, John knocked on Sherlock's door.

A moment later, Sherlock appeared, still fully dressed—and still holding the shiny bow that had fallen out of Molly's hair.

John thought he looked like shit, but was nice enough to hold his tongue. "Want to talk about it?" he said, instead.

Sherlock gave him a Death Glare. "You're going to tell me 'I told you so'," he grumbled, "so, no."

John sighed; that was _precisely_ what he was going to tell Sherlock, so he turned and walked away, closing the door behind him. John looked at the twinkling lights in the sitting room windows. They winked at him, mockingly.

He agreed with Sherlock; Christmas _was _a nuisance.


	7. Chapter 6

**A/N: Molly gets kidnapped, and Jim (Moriarty) really, ****_really_**** starts to regret this decision. **

**Lots of OOC moments and ridiculous banter. Molly ****_should_**** be more scared than this, but she still sees Jim, the guy from IT, not Moriarty, the devil we know (and love). **

**At least, not yet.**

ooooooooooooooooooooo

Chapter 6

_8 p.m., Christmas Eve_

Molly sat back in the cab, fiddling with the gift, which was now crushed. She peeked inside, and was relieved to see that everything was still there. She was so glad now that Sherlock never opened the box; she might never have recovered from her death. He would have owned a piece of her soul forever.

Even if he didn't accept the gift, he would have read the words, seen the cufflinks, and Molly would have been laid bare.

She sighed deeply and wiped her eyes; _she was such a girl._ Molly couldn't wait to get home. She'd get out this stupid dress and toss in the rubbish bin. She wouldn't put Sherlock's gift back in her jewelry box; she'd put it in a box at the back of her closet and forget about it.

Well, not really. One doesn't forget a piece of their soul. _Do they?_

The cab took a left turn instead of a right, and Molly sat up quickly. "Excuse me," She said, "you're going the wrong way."

"No, I'm not!" The cab driver in the front seat sang out.

Every hair on Molly's body stood on end, and her heart skipped a beat—and not from joy; that voice was so familiar…

"I can see you're confused," the cabbie said with a small giggle. "Sorry about that. Let's try again: _Hello, Sweet Molly._ Has Ickle-Sherlocky-kins broken your heart—again? _Girl, why do you put up with that?"_

Molly then realized who's speaking: Jim. She's too stunned for a moment to say anything.

_"I know, right?"_ he gasped. "Surprise!"

"Hello, Jim. I didn't know you drove a cab."

"Oh, certainly. I do this part-time—for extra special people, like you. "

"I see."

Jim clicked his tongue and shook his head. "No, I don't think you do, but that's all right. You'll figure it out soon."

"What do you mean?"

"And spoil the awesome surprise?" Jim mockingly gasped. "Tsk-tsk! I'm facing the other way; I want to see your face when you find out."

"Oh, well, how about you tell me, and when we get there, I'll act surprised?" Molly replied.

"You're so _adorable!_ How about… no."

"Seriously, Jim, I'm a little creeped out right now."

"Oh, you don't know the _half of it,_ darling."

"Jim, is this revenge for breaking up with you via text?"

Jim sighed. "Well, I was going to say _yes,_ to gauge your reaction, but… _no._ I've had this _special surprise_ lined up for you a few weeks ago."

"Why did you wait until _now_ to give it to me?"

"I had to time it _just right, _and it turns out I have you to thank! This evening couldn't have turned out as well as it did—_for me!"_ He said cryptically._ "_I'm _so glad_ I waited!"

"You're acting oddly."

"Hahaha!" Jim snickered gleefully. _"Not yet, I'm not!"_

Molly made a confused face. "What in the _bloody hell_ are you on about, Jim? I really don't have time for this. Let me out now." She put her hand on the door handle, but it wouldn't open.

"Nope!" He announced loudly. "And, really, Sweet Molly…" he continued, his voice dropping to normal levels, "What huge appointment must you to rush off to? Toby? A whole bag of crisps? Silly romance films that make you _cry?_ God, you've been doing an _awful lot_ of crying as of late. It's boring. _YOU'RE BORING!"_

"Hang on," Molly countered, ignoring Jim's shout at the end. "Everything you've just said was exactly what I was doing a few nights ago. How—?"

"I'm omnipotent," Jim bragged. "I. See. All."

"Yeah, right," Molly shot back. "I don't know how, but you crossed a line. What are you, some sort of stalker?" _She definitely didn't need one of those—unless it was Sherlock; she'd seriously consider putting up with that._

"No, I'm a serial killer." His statement was uttered so smoothly, Molly mistook it for a joke.

"Oh, stop it," Molly retorted. "I don't want to play this game anymore, Jim. Pull over, and let me out."

Jim tapped his chin, as if he was actually mulling it over. He then replied: "Mmm, no."

_"Damn it, you wanker!"_ Molly shouted, hitting the glass between them. "LET ME OUT!"

"Really, Molly? Is that how you speak to a friend?"

"You're _not _my friend," Molly spat. "Not any more."

"Aw, shucks, darling;" Jim replied in a mocking tone. "I had _so much fun_ the last time we saw each other."

Molly tried not to think about where Jim had put his hands. "What do you want?" She bit out.

"I want Sherlock to die, but that's for later."

Molly's ears perked up at this. "_Sherlock?!_ What do you want with _him?"_

"I want to play with Sherlock's toy, so I've taken you without asking. Let's see if good ol' Sherlock Holmes will come and fetch you back."

"That's very doubtful," she muttered. "He hates me. I account for nothing in his eyes."

"Oh, no, honey; I've got his number. I'll tell you this: He's the wee jealous lad who yanks a smart girl's pigtails because _he_ wants to be number one—but he really, _really_ likes her and doesn't know how to express it." Jim went on, sorrow creeping into his voice. "Sad, really. If he keeps that up, he'll die never knowing the love a good woman."

"Sherlock has _never_ touched me," Molly retorted defiantly. "So you're wrong."

"Really?" Jim gasped in disbelief. "You called out for him _quite often_ at night. What was _going on_ in those dreams of yours?"

"_Stop it!"_ Molly screeched; trying to block out the images from her intimate nighttime fantasies—where Sherlock's hands were on her skin.

Jim was still talking. _"You_ touched _him_ tonight, though! Yes, that was a pretty fantastic display of shedding your skin, if I may say so. _Brava!"_

Molly's mind reeled. _"What?!_ How did you know?!"

"OMNIPOTENT, DOOFUS!" Jim screamed.

Molly was struck silent.

"Still, you are so very wrong, Sweet Molly," Jim continued. "He _does_ touch you—with his words. He did tonight, because he thought you were going on a date with _me!" _Jim giggled maniacally._ "_Funny how things turn out, huh?"

"Hilarious," Molly muttered.

"Awww," Jim cooed mockingly. "I saw you on that curb, crying in your very pretty dress, because he's touched you one time too many."

She didn't want to think about Sherlock touching her! _"Let me off here!" _she demanded loudly.

_"No-can-do!"_ Jim sang out again. "I'm taking you home."

"Oh." Molly started to calm down a little. "So you drove me around to do what? Threaten me?"

"You're so adorable, with your ordinary brain," Jim spoke to her as if she were a Spaniel puppy; if he had a free hand, he probably would have reached back and patted her head.

"I'm taking you to **my home**, you simple woman," He continued. "I wonder if the great Sherlock would like a piece of that adorable dress?" He wondered aloud. "Probably not, knowing him, _The Virgin_ that he is; he didn't appreciate it when it was _right in front of him_ just moments ago…" Jim sighed. "Still, it just might motivate him to play…"

The cab suddenly stopped with such force, Molly fell to the floor.

_"We're here!"_ shouted Jim excitedly.

The left door is yanked open. Before Molly can move back, two sets of hands reach in to grab her and pull her from the vehicle. She inhales so sharply, she thinks she hurt her lungs, but immediately screams loudly—at a pitch high enough for one of the men who grabbed her to let go in an attempt to protect his ears. Her right foot and hand hit the smooth ground—roadway pavement—and she feels the heel of her shoe break off, and her earring goes flying into the darkness.

Molly tries to kick, but they are stronger. She tries to fight them off, but Jim smoothly exits the cab, reaching into his pocket as he did. He reaches over and injects her neck with something very sharp and cold, and she hears the rush of water in her ears, and sees only his insane grin and burning gaze before she passes out.

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

_1 a.m., Christmas Day_

When Molly woke up, the room was spinning, and she thought she was lying on a ridiculously oversize ball of candy floss, but she closed her eyes again and waited to the rolling and gyrations to come to halt.

She took stock of her person.

Besides the ache in her head, neck, and hand, she seemed okay. She was still wearing that damned dress. Her shoes were not her feet. Molly sent a silent thanks upward, when she realized she had not been sexually assaulted.

She lay still and tried to use her other senses.

She smelled lemon wax—and damp. Mustiness. Mineral water. It reminded her of the times her father took her spelunking. She was in a room with four walls, but she smelled a cave. That really threw her off.

She heard the roar of a waterfall. She was near a cave, then. But which one? Was she even still in London? In the United Kingdom?

Molly took a deep breath and sat up slowly, her right arm moving slowly—it felt like she was dragging a heavy tree limb—upwards to rub her neck. It really hurt.

She took this opportunity to get her eyes and brain to focus. She further scanned the room and noticed it was furnished well; dark cherry wood, white linens, and brass sconces, cream carpeting. There are a few books on a table nearby, as well as a silver tray, bearing a glass of clear liquid—_water,_ Molly hoped—and a few butter cookies.

There were no windows that she could see, but there _were_ two doors. One was larger than the other; it had to be the way out.

"If you hadn't struggled, you would feel perfectly _fine _right now." Jim's sing-song voice floated through the room.

Molly tried to locate the source, lifting the tray, checking the glass of water and the cookies, and even the books, but found nothing. She still needed to move slowly; she had been heavily drugged with an unknown substance for an undetermined amount of time.

There was obviously a camera—maybe more than one—but she'd try to find that later.

"Drink the water and eat a little, Sweet Molly. It'll help."

"Where am I? Where are my things?"

"You are a guest at_ Chateau Moriarty._ Welcome and Happy Christmas! I do hope you find the accommodations to your liking. Your purse and all its contents are safe with me. Oh, that gift for Sherlock? _So precious._ That you would waste something so sentimental on him defies logic. He definitely _doesn't_ deserve them."

Molly panicked. "Don't _you_ dare take them!" She did _not _want Jim to have any part of her soul.

"I wouldn't _dream_ of it," Jim assured her. "They aren't my style, anyway. Still, the little note was **adorable**. Maybe, one day soon, I'll give Sherlock your little gift."

"I hate you."

"Yes, I know," Jim replied simply. "It gives me such _warm feels_."

"But… where am I?"

"Hmm. I think I gave you too much knock out juice," Jim murmured. "I _said_ Chateau Mor—"

Molly shook her head. "No, I meant: _am I still in England?"_

"Ohhh!" Jim replied, realization dawning. "Yes."

"But not in London."

"Oooh, good girl! You are so adorable; too bad Sherlock didn't pick up on that."

Molly remained mute, but looked over at the tray of cookies and water. She licked her lips.

"Please eat and drink, Sweet Molly." Jim coaxed. "I promise they aren't drugged."

"You'll forgive me if I don't believe you right now."

"I forgive you," he replied. "Hell, I wouldn't trust me either."

"I have questions, Jim," Molly announced suddenly. "Am I allowed to ask them—and will you answer them?"

"No. _No questions_," Jim responded. "I'll let you know what you need to, when the time comes.

"But Jim—"

"Bup-bup-bup! Hold all questions until the end, please."

"When the end be?"

"That's a question," Jim accused. "Now, there was something I was supposed to warn you about. What was it? … Oh, yes: don't try to open the big door."

"Why—why not?"

"Awww. That sounds like a question. What did I say about those?"

"Jim, I'm a forensic pathologist," Molly replied, wishing she had a face to speak to—even if was Jim's. "I'm always asking questions."

"Well, you're no fair," Jim pouted. "All right. I'll allow you to ask, but don't expect to me answer."

Molly sighed. "Okay."

"Gosh, you're being so calm about this, Sweet Molly," Jim sighed, clearly annoyed. "It's not right."

Molly was taken aback. "Do you _want_ me to get hysterical?"

"NO!" he practically shouted. "_Please don't._ The last four did that, and it drove me CRAZY. I enjoyed the screaming during sex and torture, but in between, with the constant sobbing and pleading… It was a serious killjoy."

Molly squirmed at his casual mention of torture and rape of his victims.

_His four victims._

"Four—?" Molly couldn't get the rest of the words out, somehow knowing in the pit of her stomach what Jim was going to say next, but hoped her gut feeling was wrong.

"Well," Jim said casually, his calm disturbing Molly, "you knew three of them: Laura Kitterman, Millie MacGregor, and Carrie Gramble. I forget the name of the first one, but she was _magnificent._ She screamed and screamed and _screeeeeeeeamed..."_

"Oh, my god. Those poor women! You sick bastard!" Molly shouted at the empty room, dread flipping her stomach over. She had to try to be strong; she did _not_ want to end up like the women who'd found their way into St. Bart's morgue.

Molly wondered briefly if anyone would know where to look for her? She had warned Sherlock to stay away, so he would never know that she was missing. She felt like kicking herself.

"I don't think god's going to help you now," Jim chided, and his smooth laugh sent chills through Molly's limbs. "Got any other deities you'd like to pray to?"

_"Jim, those women had families!" _She blurted, before she could stop herself.

"So?"

"Jesus, Jim. I _know_ what you did to them."

"I know!" He giggled gleefully. "I'd had such _fun."_

"Are you… are you going to do those things to _me?" _She asked warily.

Jim was silent for a while, and Molly wanted to vomit yet again. His lack of an answer could only mean one thing…

"Oh, Sweet Molly, stop that. I can _see you_ turning green, so I'll spare you and say this: do what I tell you _exactly_ as I tell you, and we'll get along smashingly."

"That sounds ominous."

"Molly," Jim sighed exasperatedly, "you are locked in a room without windows, somewhere outside London, and talking to me through a microphone, and you think _my threat_ is ominous?"

"Why won't you come in here?" She returned with a question of her own.

"Well, I like my face and all my body parts, thank you; if I went into the room, you _might_ decide to rearrange things."

"You are _such_ a coward," she spat.

"NO! I'M **NOT!"** Jim suddenly screamed, and the horrific screeching bounced off the walls, hurting Molly's ears. "I TOOK YOU RIGHT OUT FROM UNDER SHERLOCK HOLMES'S NOSE! THAT'S **NOT** BEING A COWARD, THAT'S BEING FUCKING **BRILLIANT!"**

Molly, startled, covered her ears with her hands, and curled up on the bed. '_Please make him stop screaming!'_

Jim lowered his tone immediately. "Oh. Oh! _No, no, no._ I'm sorry, Sweet Molly. That was _so_ unprofessional of me. Are you all right?"

She kept her hands on her ears, but could still hear him, though in a more muffled tone. "Do you want my honest answer?"

"Hahaha," his laughter was mocking. "Beauty, brains, _and_ wit. Are you _sure_ I can't persuade you to come to the Dark Side?

"No."

"You're one of the angels, aren't you?" He growled. "All _light and goodness_, and _purit_y_!_" His tone switched to a conspiratorial whisper: "Well, maybe not _pure,_ as I can attest—"

"Stop bringing that up!"

"Aww, I kind of thought I made quite a fabulous impression on you. Pity." Molly's face was mutinous, certainly, so Jim pressed on. "Right, then. Let's begin.

"You mean all of the things that had occurred to this point were _just for fun?" _Molly blurted out.

Jim chuckled darkly. "For _me_, yes. Now, we have to get to the serious business."

Molly couldn't help it; she was nervous, so the first things that popped into her head flew out of her mouth: "I shudder to think."

"You are _not_ being a very nice hostage," Jim pouted.

Molly felt ridiculous speaking to an empty room. "Well, _you_ aren't being a very bad kidnapper."

Jim sighed loud and long. "I'm starting to rethink this whole 'Kidnap-Molly-Hooper-to get-to-Sherlock Holmes' scheme. You are most definitely _not_ cooperating. What in the hell happened to you, Molly?"

"I thought you _'saw all'_."

"Don't _ever_ use my words against me," came the swift, angry response. "_I'm_ the serial-killing kidnapper, here.

Molly felt control slipping away—not just from herself, but Jim as well. This was not going well. "God, I feel like we're in a _really bad_ episode of Abbott and Costello...

"Ah, yes, the famous 'Who's on First?' skit," Jim acknowledged. "Well, you're up first. It's time for your first lesson."

She looked around warily. "Which is?"

"Oh, it's simple," Jim sounded so damned casual, it was disgusting. "Go to the big door."

"What's behind it? A lady or a tiger?"

Jim chuckled again. "I admit: that was clever. However, for you, it would be a lady. _That_ would be _so much fun_ to watch on this monitor!"

Molly sighed. "It pains me to admit this, but: you know I don't swing that way, Jim."

"If I the right lady popped out, you would be!" He teased. "I know a rather interesting raven-haired woman…" His tone switched to a more serious one: "You know, I'm going have trouble killing you; you're funny."

Despite her fear, she still couldn't grasp the idea of shy Jim being an actual killer. That was a dangerous thing; underestimating a person. Didn't Molly just teach that lesson to Sherlock? "Um, thanks?"

_"Just go to the door,"_ Jim instructed, exasperated.

Molly looks over at the door and shakes her head. "No, I don't think I will."

_"I insist."_

"No."

"You know," Jim remarked with a deadly calm, "I'm becoming irritated with the sass. I've all ready broken several of my rules and now regret it, because you've gotten out of hand. I'll deal with that little problem soon enough, though." He continued quickly: "And before you make another retort, _please_ believe me when I tell you_ I'll hurt you._ You had three dead bodies in your morgue to prove that."

_'So, he didn't know about Laura Kitterman, then,'_ Molly thought. For someone who claimed to 'see all', he was lacking information. Or did he really know, and was trying to get her to reveal what she knew? She opted to reply: "You're going to hurt me anyway."

"True, but I want you to learn a lesson here."

"Which is…?"

_"You'll see,"_ he replied in that damned sing-song voice again. If Molly had her scalpel, she'd cut his throat just to get him to stop.

"I can see the murderous look on you face," Jim said neutrally. "That's _so_ not cool."

Molly rolled her eyes. "This has _got _to be strangest kidnapping I've ever participated in."

_"How many other times have you been kidnapped?"_ Jim gasped, scandalized.

Molly did not to answer this question. Instead, she rose slowly and hesitantly stepped across the plush cream carpet to stand in front of the door. It looked ordinary, but if Jim was at the wheel, there could be a thousand giant spiders on the other side, waiting to devour her.

But he said he wanted her to learn a lesson, so he wasn't going to kill her right now. So, Molly stretched out her hand and… paused just inches above the brass knob.

"Do it! Do it!" Jim chanted.

Molly gulped, braced herself for _something,_ and tapped the knob lightly.

_Nothing happened._

She gasped and sagged against the door relief. Feeling a little braver, she decided to grasp and turn the knob. That was the _wrong choice_; she received an electric shock! Molly fell back, crying out in fear—and considerable pain.

"Yaaay!" Jim giggled, damn him. _"Good girl."_

Molly glared at her hand. "I **really** hate you—and I'm not doing a bloody thing more."

"Oh, stop it. I'm not going to shock you—well, at least not with electricity. Unless you're into that…?"

"NO!"

"Hey, _everyone_ has some sort of dirty little secret. Sherlock's is: He's a virgin!" Jim crowed. "Yep. He's never been with a girl-or guy, come to think of it. I'll bet it bothers the good Doctor Watson, hahah." He laughed maniacally for a moment, then sobered quicker than what would be considered 'normal'. "So, I'll bet you have some!" He continued, knowingly. "Mine is… well, that's a story for another day. How about we get you out of those clothes?"

Molly looked at the big door, her eyes flying open in true terror. _Was Jim going to come in and rip her dress off and force himself on her?_

Jim's laugh was mocking. "Oh, dear, no. I don't want to do things to you. Well, at least not right now. Relaaaax. The smaller door is the bathroom, and yes, there's a camera in there—"

"THAT'S DISGUSTING!"

"—But it's pointed towards the **floor**, so all I'll ever see are your pretty little calves and feet. I'm a gentleman, Sweet Molly; I promise not to look at your girly parts… again. Unless you ask me to, of course."

"You will NEVER see me naked again, you wanker."

"That's not what you said last time!"

"Stop it!" Molly shouted. When Jim was silent, Molly pushed on: "Is there anything else in that room I should know about?"

"No, there's just the camera. Not telling you where it is, though. No listening devices, so you go ahead and curse me until your pretty pink tongue falls out. I don't mind; I've heard them all."

Molly fumed silently.

"Oh, and even though that room has a porthole window, don't try to scream for help. No one will hear you. Waterfall!" He sang out.

"So you want me to change clothes," Molly retorted. "How? I didn't exactly pack for a kidnapping."

Jim chuckled darkly, again. "Tsk-tsk, Sweet Molly. Such cheek! But there's something for you behind the door in the bathroom. Scoot along, now, and get a quick shower and change. I have more for you to do—and it involves writing a rather interesting letter. After that… _We get to play."_


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

_5 a.m., Christmas Day_

"Lie down on the bed," a voice announced unexpectedly—Jim's voice. Molly jumped slightly, still not used to her new surroundings.

"Excuse me?" She hoped she heard wrong.

"You heard me," he snapped. "Do it now."

Molly—now clad in an ankle-length, green silk nightdress, the only thing made available to her—had been circling the room, looking for cameras when Jim's command came.

Her mind reeled and dread began to take hold. He wanted her to lie on the bed, and there was only one reason for that. Panic crashed over her in waves; Jim told her he wouldn't harm her if she cooperated. What he wanted her to do now suggested he was going back on his word.

_'But he's kidnapped you and admitted to killing those women',_ she reminded herself. '_He can't be trusted to keep his word.'_

She was so stupid to ever trust him the first place. She was going to have to protect herself, then.

"Molly." His tone clearly suggested he was impatient.

"All right," she sighed, hoping to stall for time. "Just a minute." She looked around the room, snatching up the towel on the bed, and moving around it, closer to the night table where the books stood. She tossed the towel on top of them, and sat down on the mattress. She leaned over, grasped a large book and pulled both the towel and tome toward her, keeping the book hidden under the towel. Molly then took the edge of the towel and rubbed her hair, then set the towel next to her pillow; if Jim tried anything, she'd be able to grab the book and brain him with it.

She lay down on the bed and stared at the door.

It seemed like ten minutes had passed before it opened, and Jim strolled in. He was wearing a pale green tee shirt and black jeans. He had no shoes.

His demeanor was different. Instead of his usual loose, casual stance, he appeared to be hunched, ready to pounce; he was on the hunt and was looking at Molly as his prey.

"Took you long enough," Jim said casually, his voice betraying his face and body language.

Molly's eyes widened in fear, but she said nothing; she was fighting back the dread that was threatening to choke the air out of her lungs.

"Scared, are you? Thought I'd never actually come in here, hmm?" He said slowly, moving closer with each word. "Well, here I am. Either you're stupid, or I lie. Let's just agree to both, shall we? It's time to play a little game."

"You-you said I had to write a letter first," Molly replied, wishing she could jump up and run. She did not like the look in his eyes; she had never seen such death in a live body, before.

"So, I'm changeable," he shrugged. "You see, we're going to start with this, since, apparently, I haven't gotten my point across, and you aren't taking me seriously. This way will be much more fun—trust me. Now…" He now stood next to the bed, and Molly instinctively scrambled away.

Jim's hand shot out and grabbed her ankle roughly. "No, no, no! You're not allowed to do that. Back to where you were." He hauled her to her original position.

Molly gasped in surprise, but lay still, and her eyes followed him when he let go of her and walked around to the other side of the bed. He looked at the towel next to the pillow. "You won't be needing that," he announced, and pushed it onto the floor. The book tumbled out and hit the carpet with a thud. Jim stared at it for a moment, and Molly closed her eyes, cursing her luck and wondering what he was going to do.

"Well, now, look at that. I'm surprised you'd treat a book in that way. The damp towel could have ruined the cover." He gave her a look of mock surprise. "Ohh, I know! You were going to hit me with it, weren't you? I'd say that's clever, but…. It's not. Did you really think I wouldn't be able to tell what you were doing?"

He sat down on the edge of the bed, twisting around to look at Molly. He fingered the hem of her nightdress. "Green suits you."

Molly remained mute, being too afraid to speak. He was too close.

"You're supposed to say 'thank you'," he scolded, raising an eyebrow.

When Molly didn't respond, his other hand snaked out in a blur and grabbed a fistful of her hair. Molly screamed in pain as she was yanked towards him. Tears welled in her eyes as he leaned in to whisper in her ear: "Thank me."

'Th-thank you!" she cried, and he let go. She brought a hand up to rub the area where some of the roots had been ripped out, but he stayed it. Not taking his eyes off her, he moved like lightning, jumping on her, straddling her, trapping Molly between his jean-clad thighs. She struggled and tried to buck him off, even bringing up her knees to jam them into his back, but he slapped her face, hard, and she was momentarily stunned.

"Don't fight me," he rasped.

"I'm not going to let you rape me!" she exclaimed furiously.

"You're going to let me do _whatever I want_, or you will die."

"Then kill me now, because I'd rather die," she spat back.

"Oh, no, no, no. Then our game will be over, and that's no fun." He reached into his back pocket and brought out a SOG Kilowatt pocket knife. Molly whimpered, and he smiled, sliding it across her reddened cheek. She began struggling again, and he threw his right forearm into her throat.

As Molly gasped for air, clawing at his arm, and kicking her legs, he flipped opened the knife, and placed it on her left breast, just above the neckline of her nightgown. The tip of the blade pierced her, and he stared at her with those lifeless eyes as he drew it across her skin to her right breast, pressing down as he did so.

With the last bit of air in her lungs, Molly shrieked in pain, bucking wildly. _She had to make him stop! _

And it did.

Either she'd dislodged him, or he was satisfied, because he slid off of her and the bed and looked down at her, expressionless. She gulped in great amounts of air, crying, and pressed a hand to her chest. It wasn't a very long cut, but it was a bit deep; she'd have to stop the bleeding immediately.

He moved away from the bed, but did not leave the room. Molly sat up and rolled off the mattress towards the discarded towel. On her knees now, she snatched it up and pressed it to her, not caring if he was still in the room.

He sat down on the chair at the desk and watched her, using his shirt to wipe the blade clean. "Happy Christmas!" he stated with a smile that did not meet his eyes. "Do you believe me, now?"

Through her tears, Molly gave him a look of pure venom—and he _laughed, damn him._

"I'll take that as a yes," he said, rising to his feet and strolling over to her once more. He held out his hand silently. She stared at it, repulsed, and continued to hold the towel to her. She needed to get this gash cleaned up, but with him in the room, it was impossible. Molly worried about an infection. She had seen her fair share of those in the morgue, and did not want to die of one!

He sighed impatiently, and again, his hand went to her hair, grabbing it roughly. She cried out once more, but when he heaved her up by it, she cursed loudly at him, wanting to strike out, but he held the knife to her face.

"Come with me." He did not let go for her tresses as he stepped over to the desk. Molly stumbled, causing more pain. He threw her into the chair and smacked the back of her head.

"Get out some paper and a pen."

"I'm bleeding, Jim! You can't expect me to—"

"STOP CALLING ME THAT!" He screamed in her face, spittle flying across her cheek. "I'm not 'JIM' to you anymore! Jim is GONE!"

"What am I supposed to call you?" she retorted hotly. "'Crazy Arsehole'? I'd prefer that actu—"

He smacked the back of her head again, this time it was hard enough to make Molly's forehead hit the desk. "NO QUESTIONS!"

Molly felt dizzy, and saw spots dance before her eyes momentarily. She closed them and counted to three. When she reopened them, her jaw set mutinously, nostrils flaring, as she took deep breaths to keep from screaming. Her hands tightened into fists and she didn't care if murder was in her eyes.

He leaned over her and put his lips to her ear. "Moriarty." She jerked her head away, defiantly, and he straightened, patting her shoulder. "Now, get out some paper and start writing."

Molly opened the desk drawer and found several sheets of paper and a single pen. She removed one sheet and the writing instrument, and laid it on the desktop. Still pressing the towel to her chest, she swung her livid gaze toward him, waiting for his next instruction.

"You're going to write the following words _exactly_ as I say them," Moriarty instructed her frostily. "Do you understand?"

Molly jerked her head in comprehension; she was angry, scared, and in pain, but she just wanted him to leave. She'd write his damned letter, if that's what it took.

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

_10 a.m., Boxing Day_

Molly stared blearily at the ceiling, still not believing the things Jim forced her to write to Sherlock. She did it to avoid personal and mental injury, but it felt like Jim had just abused her, anyway. She gingerly touched the bandaged gash across her chest and cursed silently.

As for the letter, she hoped Sherlock would understand the meaning and really see it for what it was. True, it was not the happiest of correspondences, but he didn't deserve to be smote in a letter. Moriarty giggled at her as she cried when writing the words.

Poor Sherlock; he had one of the most brilliant minds on the planet, but when it came to feelings—or _sentiments_, as he usually spat—he was clueless. Until Christmas Eve, however, Molly had been patient and optimistic. She thought if she waited long enough, perhaps Sherlock would finally get it and want her.

After the Christmas party disaster and now that damned letter, Molly now wondered if she'd die lonely.

Molly lifted her left arm and brought her wrist closer to her face. According to her watch—the only thing Jim allowed her to have; he'd dug it out of her purse—it had been more than twenty-four hours since two large goons had burst into the room in a menacing manner, each holding a truncheon, and positioned themselves near her to keep her from attacking Moriarty as he sat down on the bed, poking at the blood stains she'd left after he'd cut her.

She couldn't have hurt him if she tried; she was too concerned about the wound.

After they'd appeared, he told her, ever-so-politely, that if she did not write what he dictated, one—or both—of the men would "do dirty, unspeakable things" to her person with those batons. Molly nearly vomited on the spot; that's what happened to Carrie Gramble! Had Carrie been at the mercy of these men—only to be assaulted in the worst way? Molly could feel the bile rising up from her stomach, and she swallowed, hard, to tamp it back down. She couldn't think about that now; Miss Gramble was dead, and Molly had to do whatever she could to keep herself alive.

She took her position at the desk at the foot of the bed and extracted some paper and a pen from the drawer, setting them on the smooth surface.

"Dearest Sherlock…" Moriarty had begun his dictation.

Molly had groaned.

Moriarty had sneered at her. "Oh, yes, Sweet Molly, like the note. And I do believe that's how you begin your lovely little texts." He had extracted Molly's phone from the pocket of his jeans, and began pressing buttons, Molly had gasped, and nearly jumped out of her chair, but one of the men had growled at her, and she sat down again.

"This is some really good reading, by the way," Moriarty had leered at the tiny screen. "Such angst and romance! Oh, the drama! It's a shame Sherlock never got any of these." He had looked at her then. "Too chicken to send them? Afraid he'd say even more cruel things?"

She had remained mute, recognising the truth in that statement, and hating him, herself, and Sherlock in that moment.

"So, these texts…" He had continued reading. "Hm. Hmmm. I knew he said some mean things to you, but really, Molly, he's a real git. A tosser. I could go on. What do you see in him?" There had been more clicking, more reading. "Oh, honey, why? _WHY?_ You really could do **so** much better!" He had sighed, placing the phone back in his pocket. "I have to wonder if this game I want to play will actually work. He loathes you."

"SHUT UP!" She had slapped the desk with the flat of her hand. The pen jumped slightly and clattered with a loud _/click/_.

The two goons behind her had grunted and shifted closer. Molly had stilled in fear.

"Now, now," he had scolded, "don't get my men so riled up. I can't stop them when they get whipped up into a frenzy." He then whispered conspiratorially, "They're like sharks; it's scary." In his normal voice, he then commanded: "Now, pick up that pen and write: 'Dearest Sherlock…'"

After it was done, one of the men grabbed up the sheet and handed it to Moriarty, who scanned it once, nodded, and handed it back to the man. He lifted his hand above his head, snapped his fingers in rapid succession, and another man quickly rushed in, tossing a small kit of gauze, tape, and alcohol swabs onto the desk. All four men exited the room, and Molly had placed her head in her hands and cried; the words she'd penned would be burned into her memory forever.


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

**A/N: WARNING: A woman is almost raped. Skip the first part if it bothers you; you'll find out later who the woman is.**

**Also: Sherlock gets Molly's letter.**

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

_4 a.m., Boxing Day…_

**_Running_**_._

She was barreling through a forest, limbs whipping at her face, branches ensnaring her hair. She wouldn't stop, though; she couldn't. They could be right behind her, and she would rather die here in the forest before they got a hold of her again.

Her bare feet were bloodied, bruised and aching. She was barely wearing any clothes; they'd taken her skirt and jumper, leaving her in her knickers and a soft cotton shirt, which had been ripped and smeared with mud and her own blood.

She looked back momentarily, wondering if they were after her. She was relieved to get away, but she just couldn't understand why it was happening to her.

She had been sitting on a bench, waiting for her date to arrive, when something stabbed her in the neck, and she blacked out. She had woken from a drugged-induced stupor to find herself tied to a table in a cold room with just a single bulb providing the only light.

Her arms and legs were spread apart, tied to the legs of a rough, wooden table and nearly all of her clothes had gone missing.

She heard two men talking in the darkened edges of the room; they were speaking strangely, about someone named Holly—or Molly? Was she another victim? She tried to listen closely to the conversation.

"Our Sweet Molly will surely lure Mr. Holmes to his doom."

"You think that Hooper gal's letter will work?"

"I do. Was it left where it could be found?"

"Yes, sir. Did it myself."

"Now, what do we do about our lovely lady here?"

_'Oh, god, they mean me!'_

"Let me have her, sir.

"Really? I was going to give her to Molly. Poor Molly is so lonely and needs something to do."

_'Who—or what—was Molly? A vicious animal? A nickname for another man?' _

"Have her write more, sir; she's good at that.'

"Actually, she's quite good with a scalpel, but I agree; she writes well."

_'Molly's a woman? What the bloody hell? What woman allows other women to be kidnapped and abused in horrific ways?'_

"As for this bitch… Let me play with her, sir."

There was a pause then a drawn out sigh. "Oh, all right. Just try not to spill too much blood."

She screamed then, knowing what was coming. In a flash, one of the men came into the light, leering as he loosened his belt, pulled down his pants and exposed himself to her, tugging at his member while grabbing her roughly, crudely, between her legs. The other one, whose face had been hidden in the shadows, laughed—giggled, really—and pulled her hair as he held a blade to her throat.

They were going to rape then kill her, she had thought, dread and despair wrapping around the fear that coursed through her.

_She wanted to kill this Molly, this female who was probably not far away, penning letters for amusement while these two men raped her. _

_But something happened._

Her bonds loosened, perhaps because she had struggled so much, when the bigger man settled himself between her thighs, yanked the fabric of her knickers aside, and had just started to press himself into her, sneering at her with his shark teeth as his free hand dug maliciously into her left breast…

But her right hand was suddenly free, and she had instinctively brought it up and shoved the heel of her hand into his nose. He stumbled back with a cry as blood started to gush out, his hand still on his member.

The other man, oddly, had disappeared. His knife, however, was stuck in the wood table she was tied to. Did he accidentally cut her binding when he'd plunged the knife into the table? She grabbed it, pulling with fear-fueled strength, and brought the large blade down like an axe on one of her ankle bindings.

_But it didn't cut all the way through!_

She shrieked and dropped the knife onto the table when the large man lunged at her again, grabbing her throat, screaming obscenities in her face, spittle and blood flying over her skin, and he was trying to shove himself into her once more.

"I'm going to fuck you until you bleed, then I'm going to take that knife and _slit your throat, you bitch!"_

She took one last deep gasp of breath and wrenched her knee up. The bindings snapped and her knee connected with his groin viciously. He fell back, screaming, and she wasted no time in grabbing the knife again and cutting herself completely free while he writhed on the floor.

She ran towards the only door in the room, and yanked it open. There lay the forest just beyond the doorway. She had no shoes or decent clothes to speak of, but she couldn't remain here, where death was certain; it was better to take her chances in the cold, dark forest with creatures who would hunt her down for food, rather than sport.

She was just about to take off, when a hand closed around her ankle.

"You're not going anywhere, bitch!" The man gasped, still holding his genitals. "I'm not finished with you!"

She screamed in fear, and reacted in the only way she could; she slammed the knife down into his forearm. The man's fever-pitched bellows echoed through the forest as she ran, not caring if he would live or die—because he hadn't cared about her—only that she needed to flee, to find a place to hide or get help if there was any to be found.

So, she ran; she heard the roar of a waterfall and followed the stream. She didn't stop to get a drink of water; she just wanted to be as far away from that building as possible. For what seemed like an hour, she ran, until she stumbled upon a road.

It was smooth, cool, and oh-so-wonderful to see. She prayed that a car would come along soon, because she just couldn't run anymore.

A lone SUV was coming towards her, and she begged silently that this vehicle wasn't holding her captors. She'd throw herself under its wheels if that were the case. Throwing caution to the wind—because at this point what did she have left?—she leaped from the bushes and ran in front of the vehicle. It screeched to a halt, just feet away from her, and the passenger-side door opened immediately to reveal a small, dark-haired woman in a white jumper, khakis, and hiking boots. The other door flew open and a tall, blonde man jumped out, wearing glasses and nearly the same outfit as the woman, his cell phone stuck to his ear.

_"Oh, my god!"_ The woman screeched. "Are you all right?"

"Help me!" she croaked.

"I'm calling Scotland Yard, now," the man said, fear and confusion in his eyes.

She licked her cracked, dry lips, and fell into the woman's arms, relief flooding her, she rasped: "Please, get me out of here."

The man picked her up and carried her to the SUV, while the woman took his phone and began speaking to someone. He placed her gently in the back seat, covered her with a blanket, and slid behind the wheel. The vehicle's tires peeled loudly as the man kicked at the gas pedal.

She snuggled deep into the blanket; thankful that her prayers had been answered.

The woman in the front seat uncapped a water bottle and handed it to her, the phone still stuck to her ear. "We're taking you to a hospital; there's one in Ripon. The Yard wants to know your name and what happened."

She drank slowly, savoring the plain, cool water, and closed her eyes for a moment. There was a name—not her own—that had been repeated over and over before she was nearly assaulted, a name that had been bandied about between the two monsters who had intended to end her. She had to tell someone this name.

"My name…" she gasped, "is Mary Morstan—and I need to speak to someone about Molly—Molly Hooper."

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

A pair of eyes watched the rescue from not too far away. The couple had been warned not to harm her, and they seemed to be doing a wonderful job with their false concern and gentle hands; they would be rewarded greatly.

She had to be allowed to leave, in order for the game to truly start. Sherlock wouldn't be able to resist, now.

A grin spread across features. Things were going according to plan.

Now, it was time to deal with the larger man's injuries—if he'd even let anyone near him right now—and the pathologist.

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

_Noon, 27 December_

Molly was given a tray of food by one of Moriarty's goons, but it didn't escape her notice that his forearm was bandaged and nestled in a sling.

She wondered how he got that injury.

Moriarty left her alone the entire day; she should have been grateful for it, but not knowing his location bothered her greatly. She passed the time by reading, pacing, and sitting at the desk, making tiny circles and boxes on the edges of a sheet of paper. She couldn't resist writing a note to Sherlock:

_Dearest Sherlock: I'm scared and really need you. You've no doubt received my other letter, and think I don't need you, but I do. It was stupid to tell you to stay away; I shouldn't have done that. Please don't hate me. Please find me. Love, Molly xxx_

_PS: I know he's going to find this and destroy it, but maybe you'll hear the words anyway. I can only hope._

Molly crumpled the letter and stuffed it inside her pillowcase; Moriarty may take it from her soon, but she was going to keep it close for as long as possible.

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

_10 p.m. 28 December…_

When Molly didn't show up for her shift for the third night in a row and didn't phone in, Mike Stamford grew worried. She had swept out of Sherlock's and John's flat four nights ago, on Christmas Eve, leaving everyone stunned, and it was just assumed that Molly needed some time to cool off, but Molly _never _forgot to call out.

Earlier that morning, John had called Mike, and requested discreet updates, because he was worried about the quiet pathologist. Even though John said: "I'm worried," Mike knew it was code for "We're worried."

Sherlock would never admit feelings about anyone, but Mike liked to think that Sherlock had them; he was different now, since he'd introduced John to the Consulting Detective. Sherlock was still certainly a madman, but there was something about his demeanor that suggested—to anyone who really knew Sherlock Holmes—that he cared about what Doctor John Watson thought, and brought him nearly everywhere he went. Sherlock also took John's suggestions into consideration, something no one had ever been able to get Sherlock to do before.

Mike phoned Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade and told him about this new development. Greg was concerned, too; Molly was reliable, and she was at the morgue so often, one would have thought she lived there. Why would she stay away?

Mike explained the situation: "I rang her six times, but my calls went straight to voicemail. Molly has never neglected to phone when she can't come in, so I went to her flat. I'm here now, and she's not answering the door."

Greg thought about Molly's angry, tear-stained face as she swept out of 221 B Baker Street on Christmas Eve. He hoped she hadn't gone back to her flat and done something stupid; he liked her and had considered asking her out when—and if—he was finally free of his cheating wife. If the pathologist had harmed herself in any way, he would seriously consider shooting Sherlock Holmes in the face; the man had been so awful to her that night.

Greg replied, his voice troubled: "Wait there; I'll be round shortly."

Lestrade showed up within fifteen minutes, and spoke to the landlord, thanks to Mike, who had flagged down the elderly man when he'd popped in to one of Molly's neighbors flats to remind them of the noise ordinances. Greg knew he didn't have a search warrant, but he attempted to appeal to the older man's good nature, and explain that he was concerned about his good friend.

The landlord knew Molly Hooper well; she paid rent on time, was quiet, kind, and sometimes offered treats to him when he'd be in the hallway, painting the walls or fixing the lights. If something had happened to her, he most certainly would be sad.

There was no hesitation when he reached for the key ring at his hip, finding the correct key to open Ms. Hooper's door.

Toby, the little black and white feline that was Molly's constant companion, had launched his furry body at the three men when they entered, not because he was an attack cat, but because he was starving. He meowed, trilled, and purred as he wound around Greg's ankles. Mike responded by picking him up and moving toward the tiny kitchen, to locate something to feed the small cat, while Greg searched the rest of the flat. The landlord shuffled in, checking the lights in the sitting area.

The detective was relieved when Molly's body was not discovered lying on the floor or hanging from any ceiling, but it presented him with another problem: _where was she? _

"Detective Lestrade!" Mike called out suddenly. Greg moved out of Molly's bedroom and towards the kitchen area, where Toby was standing on the table, bent over an open can of tuna, gobbling it hungrily, and Mike was looking down, not at the cat, but at a lumpy envelope propped up against an empty vase.

Lestrade stared at it for a moment, then texted Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

_10:25 p.m., 28 December_

Upon receiving Lestrade's text, Sherlock snatched the phone from John—who protested: "You never want to pick up your own phone, but when mine goes off, you take it? That's bloody ridiculous."—and scanned the words. John caught a glimpse of Sherlock's face; it turned ashen for a moment. Sherlock handed the phone back to John.

"What's going on?" John asked.

"We have to go to Molly's."

"Molly's? Why?"

"She has not reported to work for three nights."

"After what you said to her on Christmas Eve, it's no wonder. She's probably hiding somewhere, licking her wounds. We don't verbally bash our friends, Sherlock."

"She's not my friend." The words flew out, but Sherlock wished he could take them back.

"Yes, you made that perfectly clear to everyone—including Molly."

"Do be quiet, John; you're making it difficult to think. No, she's missing, and Lestrade says there's an envelope on her kitchen table, addressed to me."

John looks at the text: _At Molly's. Mike: she no show 3 days. Letter 4 Sherlock.—GL_

"Hang on… How did you know it's on the kitchen table?"

"Simple. I visited Molly once—"

"You _actually went_ to her flat?" John gaped. "How do you know where she lives?

"I accessed her personnel file once when I visited Bart's." Sherlock said this casually, like he was informing John they'd needed milk again.

"Ah. Yeah, that's a bit not good." John shook his head.

"It's not?" Sherlock frowned.

"It's not. If you just wanted to know about her, you _really_ should have asked."

Sherlock ignored this and continued. "She invited me in, and I saw her living room in complete disarray; bills, dishes, crumbs, and tissue papers all over—probably had been watching some sappy romantic film—however, the kitchen was rather tidy. Obviously, she eats in the living room, so to avoid losing a letter to the mangled mess, she placed it on the table, where it would be seen right away."

"Ah."

"You don't seem impressed."

"Oh, I am. I'm keeping it contained," John said with a roll of his eyes.

Sherlock raised a brow at John.

"I can't believe I'm going to say this," John sighed, "but: She likes you, Sherlock. Molly Hooper likes you. I don't know—_and I don't want to know!_—why, but she does. It would really help you to apologize the next time you see her."

"Oh, John, I envy you."

"Envy? Envy me how?"

"Your mind. It's so placid. Straightforward. Barely used. Mine's like an engine, racing out of control. A rocket, tearing itself to pieces, trapped on the launch pad."

"Sherlock, you are not making sense."

"Women don't make sense, John; do well to remember that. That's precisely why I dislike mingling with them."

"Oh, so you _are _gay?"

"I thought it didn't matter. Does it now?"

"You answered my question with a question, Sherlock, so either you were stalling for time to come with a lie, or you were taken by surprise at my very correct assumption. Which is it?"

"Why are we even discussing this?" Sherlock asked, grabbing his Belstaff and scarf, putting them on quickly. "We should be going to Molly's. Get your coat."

John did. "People talk," he said simply, as he shoved his arms into the sleeves.

Sherlock was tugging on his gloves. "Let them," he replied simply. "I don't care what others think… But, I'm not gay."

John did not reply; he followed Sherlock down the steps and out to the street. "I thought you didn't care what others thought?"

Sherlock waved down a cab. "I care about what my friend thinks; there's a difference."

"Do you care about what Molly thinks?"

A cab pulled up to the curb, and Sherlock was silent once more.

John frowned. "All right, how about this, then: why are you so mean to her?"

Sherlock paused a moment before opening the door. "I… I don't know."

John saw the look of confused sadness on Sherlock's face, and let the matter drop. He didn't want to tell his friend that he might have _feelings_ for Molly Hooper; Sherlock would scoff loudly and throw a fit; the consulting detective didn't have _feelings. _

John climbed into the cab with the _feeling_ Sherlock Holmes was very wrong.

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

_Dearest Sherlock:_

_I used to adore you... How you've broken my heart… Are you a man or machine?... View me with fine eyes, you never did... Eviserated by your hatred, I have been... Highly I used to think of you, but no more... Everything will be well... Round and round, our dance has gone, but now it's over. _

_Love, Molly xxx_

Sherlock set aside the single sheet of lined paper and looked at the piece of cloth that had been enclosed with it. The material closely resembled the dress Molly had worn the previous evening. When Sherlock saw her in it, he assumed she was wearing it for another man at another party she had planned to attend after leaving Baker Street. His fingers had itched to touch the material, for it looked soft. When he saw the gift, something consumed him—something he had felt so few times before—and it caused him to observe, but not really see, until it was too late.

He had lashed out at Molly, and now she was missing, leaving only a strange letter. He would never forget the look she gave him. Sherlock wanted to apologize, but something made him speechless. He had been too fascinated by her rapid change that he forgot to speak.

Her horrified expression and tear-filled eyes swam before him again, unbidden, and he felt a dull throb streak through him, from his chest to stomach. It hurt—and scared him. Sherlock blinked a few times and applied pressure to his chest; he had forgotten to eat, so it was possible he was experiencing heartburn stemming from hunger pangs. He vowed to stop for take-away before returning to Baker Street.

Sherlock turned his attention back to the letter, still rubbing his chest. It was definitely written by Molly; he had seen her scribbles countless times before, on nearly everything in the lab, but most recently on the gift she had snatched away.

What had been in that box? He recalled it being lightweight, so it was small. He did not shake it, so he couldn't make further deductions on it. Would he ever see that gift again?

John had been talking to Lestrade and Mike, who were discussing the possible locations for Molly's whereabouts. Mike mentioned Scotland, because that's where her mother lived. John knew Sherlock all ready knew this, of course, having admitted to viewing Molly's personnel file, but as John had put it, it was not good, so he was thankful when Sherlock kept his mouth closed on the subject. John glanced over to see Sherlock massaging his torso, so he shuffled over to investigate.

John looked on with concern. "You okay?"

Sherlock nodded. "I'm fine. I believe I need to eat."

"We really should find Molly first." John said as he looked at the letter. "Well. Seems she's giving you the boot, so to speak. I never knew Molly to be so… poetic."

"Poetry." Sherlock curled his lip in disgust. "I wonder: Has Molly been reading your emails to your girlfriend, too?"

"Sherlock…" John shot back warningly.

Sherlock, abruptly—and rather loudly—replied: "I know where she is."

John looked confused. "You… do?"

At this point, Lestrade and Mike ambled over. "Where?" the Detective Inspector asked.

Sherlock replied bitingly: "The London Eye."

"Really?" Lestrade and Mike said simultaneously.

Sherlock replied, "Of course. Look at the letter. All the clues are there." He thrust the letter out, and recited what was written there. _I used to adore you._ "Rubbish; there's no clue there" _How you've broken my heart._ "Again, rubbish; no clue. "

Lestrade chuckled. "I'll say **someone** has no clue."

John shook his head. "Not now, Greg."

Sherlock continued:_ Are you a man or machine?_ "Refers to a machine." _View me with fine eyes, you never did._ "View… view London from the wheel—or as it's called… an eye." _Eviserated by your hatred, I have been._ "Rubbish again; what was she thinking? It's stupid."

John sighed, exasperated. "Sherlock. Unkind… Again."

Sherlock snorted lightly, but pressed on: _Highly I used to think of you, but no more._ "High in the sky. Right. It soars over all the other buildings in the area." _Everything will be well, however._ "You can see nearly everything on a clear day, I suppose she's saying; could just be another rubbish statement." _Round and round, our dance has gone, but now it's over._ "It moves in a circle, so it goes 'round'."

Sherlock threw the paper down. "Well, this was a waste of my time; she's pouting at the London Eye." He had actually hoped she was telling him she was sorry for her behavior, even though something deep within him knew it was _his fault_ that she had run off.

He could feel the unnamed _feeling_ pushing on the locked door, and he wanted to holler, to run. These _feelings_ needed to stop; they were distracting him!

Lestrade looked askance. "Are you certain? This could be her fancy way of telling you to bugger off. You were pretty harsh the other night."

"So I've been told," Sherlock responded dryly. "Molly knows I enjoy puzzles occasionally; this must be part of the gift she intended to give me."

Lestrade gave him a doubtful look: "Which just so happened to include a piece of her dress?"

Sherlock shrugged. "She tried to make it interesting. It was for about ten minutes."

"Good for her, yeah?" John said sarcastically, receiving another glare from Sherlock.

Mike interrupted, curiosity written across his features. "Sherlock, my Molly would never forget to call off work just to play a game. And where has she been staying, if not here in this flat, for the last few nights?"

Sherlock's stared at Mike in disbelief; was Stamford insulting his deduction? And when had Molly become 'Mike's Molly?' Sherlock was about to retort with: "She's **my** Molly", but Sgt. Sally Donovan, who had been standing nearby, combing through a box extracted from Molly's bedroom closet while listening to the whole conversation, finally jumped in.

"So, what did you say to her, Freak?"

Sherlock glared at Donovan, then turned away, busying himself with looking through Molly's kitchen cabinets.

Lestrade turned to his partner. "I'll tell you what he did. On Christmas Eve, the tosser insulted everything Molly was wearing—and she looked beautiful— from her makeup to her… bits, even the wrapped gift she tried to give him. She was so upset, she—I don't know what happened to her, really, but she took the gift back, had some words for Sherlock, then stormed out of the flat. Wouldn't be surprised if she cried."

Sherlock scowled, and that strange feeling rose up in his chest again. He slammed the cabinet door, making everyone jump.

Sally shook her head, clapping slowly, insultingly, "Good work, Freak."

Lestrade continued, looking at Mike, now. "Honestly, if I ever insulted her like that, I'd immediately fall down at her feet and kiss them, begging for forgiveness."

Sherlock turned back to the men. "I would never kiss anyone's feet," he stated. "Disgusting. And you have been trying to make good with your wife, Lestrade; so kissing anything of Molly's would put you in a bad light with the Mrs., who's now sleeping with her gynecologist, by the way."

Lestrade gaped at him. "How did you—? But… she's a woman!"

Sherlock's eyebrow lifted. "The wife or the doctor?"

"BOTH!" Greg shouted.

The other eyebrow shot up. "Interesting," Sherlock replied.

John said, "Sherlock… I think that's enough." To Lestrade, who looks ready to pull his gun on Sherlock, he said: "Do you think you can get some of your people over to the Eye? Make sure she's still there, and is okay?"

Sally Donovan set down the box. "Yeah, I'll do it—but only because it's for Molly, not because **he**—" She jerked her thumb at Sherlock, who had picked up the letter once more, and held it up to the light."—suggested it." She motioned to a uniformed officer, and the pair swept out of Molly's flat.

Lestrade shoved his notepad into his coat pocket and shot a glare at Sherlock, but addressed Mike and John. "Someday, someone's going to slam their fist into that mouth of his; I hope I'm there to see it."


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

_12:37 p.m, 28 December_

Sgt. Sally Donovan sighed heavily, and whipped out her radio. There was a woman at the London Eye, all right—but it wasn't Doctor Molly Hooper.

She and Officer Freeman had trekked down to Jubilee Gardens to check out the London Eye. They scoured the area around the Eye, and even checked the pods, thanks to the night-cleaning crew and security staff. There was nothing to be found—not even a tissue, and most certainly not a sulking pathologist.

While Sally was thanking the security crew for their help, Officer Freeman called out her name. Sally stiffened; the tone of his voice suggested something was very wrong.

Her shoes clicked heavily along the pavement as she hurried toward Officer Freeman's voice. He was standing in front of a person seated on a bench. "Wotcha got, Marty?" She asked as upon approach, quickly noticing that something was definitely off about the figure; the angle of her head was wrong.

Marty sighed, shook his head, "Definitely not a live one."

Sally took in the body on the bench. It was definitely female; the Belstaff that closely resembled the Freak's was not completely closed, exposing her breasts. She had been battered, her face on the right side completely bashed in, and her head was shaved completely. An envelope was pinned—with a rather large safety pin—to the deceased's left breast… and it was addressed to Sherlock Holmes.

Sally raised the radio to her lips and pressed the button on the side. "Lestrade? Donovan," she sighed. "You'd better get down here—and bring the Freak."

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

_Four hours earlier…_

Molly leaned over the sink, crying, as she tended to the second gash Moriarty had given her.

This time, he and two of his goons had rushed in, they grabbed her, and while she screamed and thrashed, threw her on the carpet and held her arms and legs. Molly was sure that this would be her end, especially when Moriarty knelt down and pushed her nightdress up around her small breasts, his eyes darkening as his right hand palmed one of them gently, his lips curving into an evil smile.

"It'll be all right," he crooned, the lilt in his voice smoothing over her like warmed butter.

But she knew better; she knew he was going to hurt her—and most likely allow the two other men to do so, too—before he killed her.

Moriarty slid his hand down her sternum to her navel, almost lovingly—which sickened her—causing Molly to draw in a sharp breath while trying to struggle free… when her captor whipped out his knife and made a gash between her breasts.

Molly screamed in terror and pain, and she was suddenly free. The two men holding her down had taken their hands off of her, and stepped back. Molly curled into a ball, crying out.

"Get up and go clean yourself up," Moriarty commanded. "You have another letter to write."

Molly crawled into the bathroom, ignoring the laughs from the men, and shut the door. It was painful to lift her arms, but she had to stand up and then remove her nightdress, because it was now soaked with blood. She used it to apply pressure to stop the bleeding, while turning on the shower. Molly knew stepping into the stream of water was going to really sting, but she had to wash the blood away. She was thankful she remembered to put the little first aid kit on the counter after the last time Moriarty cut her.

It took about ten minutes, but she cleaned herself up, and placed more gauze on her body. She looked at herself in the mirror, at the 'T' shaped gauze on her chest and wondered how many more times Moriarty was going to slash her before she'd run out of was to keep the wounds covered? Then, she realized she had nothing else to wear, and would have to leave the room with just a towel wrapped around her body.

She was shaking when she opened the door, and found all three men waiting for her. The two larger men's gazes were filled with such lust, Molly wanted to vomit; they did not look at her as something to be desired, but as an object to sate their sexual frustration. Molly started to cry again.

"Oh, stop that," Moriarty huffed. "They aren't going to hurt _you;_ not when we have plenty of other choices." He touched the shoulder of man with the bandaged arm and smiled; the blonde man returned the grin. "Now, sit down, and get ready to write," Moriarty told her.

Molly's mind reeled. They had other choices? Did they have sex with each other? She shut her eyes tight, her face screwing up in disgust as the images of the three men, naked, and writhing against each other, came unbidden. She didn't want to think about that and tried to apply Sherlock's ability to delete information.

She failed.

"I think I'm going to be sick!" She cried, and bent over, fear, pain, and the horrible images piling up all at once. Moriarty scoffed, and turned away, as one of the other men thrust a small rubbish bin near the door at her. Molly vomited, all of her lunch going right into the can.

After a few moments, Moriarty, who nose was wrinkled in disgust, told one of the men to get rid of the bin, because the smell offended him. He went to the side table, grabbed the glass and pitcher of water, and poured Molly a drink. He handed it to her silently, and she took it, her hand shaking. Molly took great gulps and set the empty glass down on the desk, taking deep breaths in an attempt to calm down.

"I've been rather patient, Molly," Moriarty said with a deadly calm. "But playtime's over. Now, take up the pen and write exactly what I say…"

And Molly did; she had no other choice.

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

_Dearest Sherlock, _

_Soaring high above, I am… Hear me now… Exploding into the night… Spectre of the dark… London will fall at my feet… Oversized hearts will ring out with joy… Visitors will welcome me… Everyone will hear me… Lay time at my feet… You clever Fawkes. _

_Love, Molly xxx_

"What do you make of this, Sherlock?" John asked, waving his hand at the letter in Sherlock's grasp.

He held it up to the light of a nearby lamppost, then brought it to his nose and inhaled deeply. "It's another clue, obviously. She's telling us where to go next."

He had been relieved that the body wasn't Molly's, and did agree with John that it was unfortunate for the dead girl. It was, however, better for him, because it meant that Molly was still out there, waiting for him, and it kept his mind from wandering off, thinking about his _feelings._

Maybe that was a good thing? He wondered what else he'd do when he saw Molly. There was an overwhelming urge to do something other than just talk to her, and Sherlock was having trouble deciding what that was.

John's voice cut through his thoughts.

"Sherlock? Didn't you hear me? I said: 'And that is?'"

"Yes. Right. I'll… need to study the letter some more, but I have three ideas." He handed the letter to John.

"I wager Molly's been watching too much 'Doctor Who'," John said, as he looked over the letter. "But it doesn't explain how this letter got pinned to that poor lady." He gestured to the dead woman.

Anderson looked up from the body. "Perhaps this Jane Doe was all ready sitting here, and Ms. Hooper just came along and pinned it?"

"Anderson, please refrain from speaking," Sherlock sneered. "You're lowering the IQ of everyone in the area—including the rabbits in the bushes."

Anderson glared at him and returned to collecting evidence.

To John, Sherlock queried, "Doctor Who?"

John nodded. "Yeah, it's a telly show filmed here in England. Science fiction. Time-trav—"

_"Time travel._ What a ridiculous notion," he scoffed. "Load of nonsense."

"Well, it's not bollocks. The show's quite good—and it's one of Molly's favorite programs."

Sherlock's gaze narrowed. "How do _you _know that?" he asked suspiciously.

_"I talk to her,_ Sherlock," John sighed. "Unlike _you,_ who barely notices her unless it's to wheedle body parts or lab access from of her."

Sherlock was about to respond, but Lestrade came over. "Just got a call; fancy a drive to Ripon?"

"Ripon?" John asked, confused. "That's a bit out of the way. What's there?"

"A woman is lying in a hospital bed; she was attacked by two men, but she wants to talk to me about Molly Hooper."

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

John sat in the backseat of Greg's SUV as they traveled north to Ripon. Sherlock was in the front seat, re-reading the letter. John looked at the box next him on the seat; it had been collected from Molly's flat. He lifted the lid, and peeked inside, curiosity getting the best of him.

There were photographs scattered about; they were of a young girl with two adults in various places—the beach, a forest, a party… This must be Molly and her parents' Nestled amongst the pictures were shells, some beaded necklaces and feathers, a few pinecones, and postcards, but it was the two large books that caught his attention.

John grasped the largest one, the one with a dark blue leather cover, and opened it. It was a sketchbook, and the first page was a drawing of flowers. John turned the page, and found more flowers. Molly wasn't a bad sketch artist, he thought. He continued flipping through, and discovered drawings of her cat, John himself—and he was flattered—Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mike, and…

_Sherlock._

Molly had drawn the previous pictures well, but it was the collection of Sherlock sketches that really shocked John. If Sherlock wasn't sitting in the front seat, complaining to Lestrade about keeping to the correct side of the road, John would have believed that these Sherlocks would, at any moment, turn, blink, and scowl at him. They were so life-like, with every detail painstakingly, lovingly, attended to.

Molly Hooper had drawn Sherlock as she saw him, and… he looked sad. John frowned; he had never noticed this before, and he lived and worked with the man.

"Oy, Sherlock…" John called out, leaning forward, but not taking his eyes off the picture of Sherlock sitting at his favorite microscope in the lab. God, it was so real-looking! "Sherlock, I think you ought to see—"

"Not now, John!" Sherlock snapped. "Lestrade is trying to kill us; he's driving much faster than the posted limit allows."

"Shut it, Sherlock," Lestrade snapped back. "I'm an officer of the law; I know the rules."

"Yes, and you're breaking them!"

John sighed and closed the sketchbook, placing it back into the box; he would show them to Sherlock later. Now, he just wanted his earplugs.


	11. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

"I met Tom through a dating site," Mary Morstan told Greg Lestrade, her eyes flitting over to Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. The former was standing by the window, looking out into the darkened sky, the latter was seated, holding a little notepad, furiously scribbling in it. The tall, dark man seemed imposing, while the shorter, seated man kept looking up at her with a comforting smile. Detective Inspector Lestrade had a neutral expression, as he too, took down some notes.

She poked at the IV stuck in her hand, feeling slightly uncomfortable being in the room with so many males. It would have been a greater discomfort, had the two female nurses not also been in the room.

Mary went on: "I was supposed to meet him in Jubilee Gardens that night, because we were going to walk together over to The Charles Dickens—that's a nearby pub—and get a few drinks. I was there for about five minutes and had looked down at my watch when I felt a sharp pain in my neck. I brought my hand up and felt something sticking out of my skin. I tried to stand up and pull it out, but my vision went wonky and I blacked out."

"What happened then?" Lestrade asked.

"I… I don't remember. I woke up to find myself tied to a table, most of my clothes missing, and two men talking about someone."

"Did you catch their names?" John asked, his brow furrowed in question. "The two men, speaking, I mean."

Mary shook her head. "No, they didn't address each other in that way, although one called the other 'sir'."

"Please describe them and their voices," John coaxed with a slight smile. "If you can."

Mary closed her eyes and frowned. She really didn't want to speak about this, but she had to; those people needed to be stopped. "The big one—the one who called the other 'sir'—was big, kind of stocky. He had blonde hair and… and…" She went silent, taking a deep breath. "The other? I never saw him, but he was there. He… he held the knife to my throat when the other…" She trailed off and started to cry.

John leapt from his chair, reaching out to pat Mary's IV-free hand. "It's all right, Miss Morstan. You're safe now."

Sherlock had turned and raised an eyebrow at the pair, but said nothing. Lestrade merely smiled grimly and nodded.

"I—I know. Forgive me. It's hard to put aside those feelings; I really thought I was going to die." One of the nurses came forward with a box of tissues, which John took from her and handed to Mary. She wiped her eyes, then blew her nose. "The other man," she continued, "his voice… He was definitely Irish. There was a creepy, callous indifference tone to it, and… and he giggled a lot."

Sherlock's gaze narrowed. "What did they say, exactly?"

"I—I—" Mary stuttered, trying to recall the words.

_"Think, woman!" _Sherlock hollered impatiently.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade bellowed.

"Oy!" John shouted.

"Hey!" One of the nurses scolded.

Sherlock sighed heavily, and stepped back. "My apologies. Do take your time, Miss Morstan. Try to recall what they said. Please. Anything you remember will be helpful."

Mary closed her eyes and took three deep, calming breaths. She was silent for several long moments, then, suddenly, she began speaking:

_"Our Sweet Molly will surely lure Mr. Holmes to his doom."_

_"You think that Hooper gal's letter will work?"_

_"I do. Was it left where it could be found?"_

_"Yes, sir. Did it myself."_

_"Now, what do we do about our lovely lady here?"_

_"Let me have her, sir._

_"Really? I was going to give her to Molly. Poor Molly is so lonely and needs something to do."_

_"Have her write more, sir; she's good at that.'_

_"Actually, she's quite good with a scalpel, but I agree; she writes well. As for this bitch… Let me play with her, sir."_

Mary opened her eyes and looked at John, who smiled encouragingly, before turning to Sherlock and Greg. It didn't take a Consulting Detective to know Mary Morstan had heard to men talking about their Molly Hooper. Lestrade led them outside to the hallway.

"She's with those bastards," Lestrade said angrily. "She ran off with some sick psychos and she's leaving little clues while they are hurting—even killing—women and… and…" Greg shook his head, running a hand through his silver hair.

Sherlock turned toward the door and knocked. One of the nurses appeared in the window, frowned, and looked at Lestrade. The DI nodded and the nurse opened the door.

"I have a few more questions for Miss Morstan," Sherlock said, as he strode into the room once more.

"Did you see this Molly Hooper at all?"

Mary shook her head. "No."

Sherlock "When you escaped, what do you remember about your surroundings?"

"Woods… and a waterfall," Mary told them. "It looked familiar, the waterfall; but I can't figure out why. Then a couple in a green SUV stopped and picked me up and brought me here." She started to cry again, and John held out the tissue box for her, while patting her shoulder.

Sherlock and Lestrade turned to the nurses. "Did anyone catch the names of the couple?" Sherlock asked.

"No, sir," The nurse who'd opened the door for Sherlock replied. "They dropped her off, told us they thought she'd been attacked in the woods, and then in all the commotion of trying to get the rape kit for Miss Morstan and another victim coming in after being hit by a car… Well, they disappeared."

"We'll need to see the CCTV footage of the parking lot, if possible," Lestrade said.

The nurse nodded and scurried off, presumably to tell security what the detective required. Sherlock turned to the other nurse and asked: "Did they say where Miss Morstan came out?"

"No, sir," the nurse replied, "but the closest wooded area is Studley Park. There's a stream there."

"Waterfall?"

"There's one, of sorts," the nurse nodded.

"Perhaps we should check it out, Sherlock," Lestrade suggested, putting away his notepad. "It's the only lead we have."

"No, it's not," Sherlock replied, removing Molly's letter. "There's still _this_ matter to deal with. I suspect that we'll find another body wherever this clue leads us, but perhaps we'll get another clue _there _as to where those men and Molly are."

"Sherlock," Lestrade began, "do you think Molly's working with those men?"

"I need more data," Sherlock told him. "There's something missing, and I don't know what—" he stopped and his eyes widened. "Oh, of course."

Lestrade's head tilted to the side. "What? What have you got?"

Sherlock went to Mary Morstan and John. "The dating website. What's the name of it?"

Mary looked taken aback. "LondonLovers."

John perked up. "That's the same site I—" He suddenly looked sheepish. "That's how I met Jeanette."

Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "It was rumored Millie MacGregor had a secret boyfriend. Carrie Gramble had a boyfriend, but as he was no longer in the picture—probably because of the drugs—it's very likely she went looking for a new one. We really ought to check that website."

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

After meeting with the hospital security, Lestrade jotted down the couple's SUV's plate number, and texted Donovan to get to work on a trace.

Mary Morstan had no family members whose care she could be released into, so she was given a lift back to London with Detective Lestrade, Sherlock, and John. She was wary of being in a confined space with three strange men, but John and Lestrade seemed to understand, and Lestrade gave to her his vehicle's tire iron. John joked to Sherlock that he should keep quiet, lest Mary use it on him, because god knew he certainly wanted to sometimes.

Sherlock ignored this of course. He was thinking about the letter; he was convinced it was Big Ben. He told the other occupants in the car: _Soaring high above, I am._ "The bell tower rises high above." _Hear me now._ "Hear the bell chimes." _Exploding into the night._ "Exploding, like bombs—Guy Fawkes Night, in commemoration of the night he tried to blow up the Parliament building, where the bell is housed." _Spectre of the dark._ "In the fourth James Bond film, Thunderball, a mistaken extra strike of Big Ben on the hour is designated by criminal organization SPECTRE to be the signal that the British Government has acceded to its nuclear extortion demands."

"Hang on," John interrupted. "How do you know about James Bond, but not Doctor Who?"

_"Focus, John!"_ Sherlock scolded. He went on: _London will fall at my feet._ "London landmark, obviously." _Oversized hearts will ring out with joy._ "Bells ring." _Visitors will welcome me._ "Visitors are welcomed to tour the bell and the Parliament Building." _Everyone will hear me._ "The chimes are exceedingly loud." _Lay time at my feet._ "Time. Clock." _You clever Fawkes._ "Again, another reference to Guy Fawkes."

John asked about the man she was supposed to meet up with, and Mary talked about him a little. She said Tom had recently moved to London from America, worked on computers, and was interested in football and swimming. Mary said she was surprised they had even matched up, but talking to him on the computer and then twice over the phone, he seemed all right. She said Tom had a funny accent, like he was trying too hard to sound American; she thought maybe he was from the American south, and was trying to cover up a drawl. She'd met him at a pub, and he was rather nice, so she agreed to a date—a date that never happened.

When they returned to London, they took Mary home, and she, surprisingly, lived just a few streets away from Sherlock and John, on Balcombe. John asked her if she would like to pop over for tea sometime, giving her their address, and Mary nodded, saying it would be lovely, but she really needed some time to recover.

They trio went to Baker Street, and Greg once again contacted Sgt. Sally Donovan, directing her to the Parliament Building, specifically to stop tours to the bell, because it could be a crime scene. Donovan complained about the headache she was going to get from the paperwork nightmare, but Greg didn't care; Sherlock said the next place they'd find another body would be at Big Ben, so they needed to get there ASAP. Greg promised they'd be there soon.

John broke out his laptop; he logged into the LondonLovers website, and easily found Mary Morstan, who went by the named "ProudMary" (she'd told this to John; she loved the song by Tina Turner). Sherlock, of course, commented on John's nickname: "ArmyDoctor" _("That's as clever as you could get, John?")_, and Greg considered creating a profile for himself.

They decided to hack into the website—to which Greg was not pleased; he told them he should arrest them, but everyone knew it wouldn't happen—and took a closer look at Mary's profile. There had been four men to contact her since she'd created the profile. Sherlock took a look at the men's dating profiles and deducted that two ("CallofBooty", "SavageKhunt") were actually married, and one ("JediTrekkie") was still living with his mother, so that left "JustTom".

With a few quick clicks, John had hacked into Tom's profile. There was no picture of Tom, but plenty of photographs of green rolling hills, a beach, and a bare minimum of information. John was surprised that someone as bright as Mary ('_Well, she seemed to be,'_ John thought) would even want to speak to someone who had little to no statistics.

"Find out to whom Tom's been talking," Sherlock commanded, from his lookout by the window.

"I'm not listening to this!" Greg said, walking away, his hands over his ears.

"Fine then, Lestrade," Sherlock snapped. "See if Mrs. Hudson's awake to give you a spot of tea."

"As your guest," Greg shot back, "_you_ should be offering _me_ tea."

"How many times have you been here?" Sherlock asked, folding his arms together.

"More times than I care to admit."

"Hey!" John cried, offended.

"Sorry, John." Greg laughed.

"Well, then, that means you are no longer a 'guest'," Sherlock announced. "You can make the bloody tea yourself."

"Sherlock…" John said suddenly, his tone ripe with disbelief.

Sherlock turned. "What is it, John?"

"You-you need to see this."

In two strides, Sherlock—and Greg—crossed the room and was at John's side, peering over his shoulder. In Tom's site email, he had sent many messages, but three names Sherlock had seen recently, and one that was so very familiar: "LilKitty" (Laura Kitterman), "MillieMayI"(Millie MacGregor), "HawtGurl666" (Carrie Gramble), and "WhovianGal42"…

_Molly Hooper._

Sherlock's insides roiled. It just couldn't be. Molly could not have had contact with the same man who had emailed three dead women and Mary Morstan. Things were not looking good for his pathologist; she was missing, had been writing letters—one of which was found with a dead woman, had been spoken of during an abduction, and now had been found to have been in contact with what was possibly their lead suspect.

_Had he driven her to madness?_

He looked over at the letter sitting on his desk, and snatched it up. Her loopy handwriting winked up at him, almost mocking him. With his free hand, he grabbed up John's laptop, which garnered protests from his friend.

Sherlock flopped down on the sofa, set the letter next to him, and began typing away, his fingers flying over the keyboard. After a few moments, he stopped and stared at the screen. John and Lestrade wanted to ask, but they knew Sherlock was trying to gather data in order to make his deduction.

"We need to get to the next place the clues point to in this letter," he said abruptly.

"Will we find Molly there?"

"No." He said nothing further as he tossed John's laptop aside onto the cushions, leapt up and grabbed his coat and scarf. Lestrade scrambled for his jacket and was off down the stairs behind Sherlock. John paused for a moment and looked at his still-open laptop. There on the screen were two open windows. One was Molly Hooper's profile. The other was the profile of "JustTom".

Tom's name was prominently displayed: _Tom Riary_.

John gasped and grabbed his coat, calling out for the two other men to wait. Tom's name was an anagram! He knew Tom's real name, having heard it from Sherlock after John saved him from that serial-killing cabbie.

_Moriarty._

**A/N: I realize computer hacking can be sophisticated, but for the sake of the story, John and Sherlock (especially Sherlock!) are very proficient.**


	12. Chapter 11

**A/N****: It's Ben's Birthday ****and**** he's been nominated for an Emmy, so here is a chapter to celebrate!**

**More good news****: I'm 1,000 words away from my NaNoWriMo goal of 50,000. You'll be happy to know that as of this moment, I have 17 chapters of this story completely written—with more planned. I have to flesh out the next 6, but will post them when possible. I have gone back and tweaked a few of the previous chapters, but only slightly.**

**Also****: I considered changing this to a 'T' rating, but am not sure… There doesn't seem to be as many horrific deeds in it as I thought there would be. Feedback?**

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

Chapter 11

Molly recounts Moriarty carving the final portion of the letter 'I' into her skin before making her write another letter. She's angry, humiliated, and very, very afraid. She wishes she could escape, but doesn't know where she is, and knows that Moriarty would be on her in seconds, thanks to the cameras.

She decided to write to Sherlock in secret, on a crumpled paper she kept hidden. There are all ready several notes to him there, and she's glad for a diversion; Moriarty took all the books out after he foiled her plan to brain him with one. She feels closer to Sherlock this way. Molly knew she should be angry with him, for all the things he said on Christmas Eve, but he was Sherlock; that's how he was and always would be. Molly resolved that if she were to get out of this alive, she would still want Sherlock Holmes in her life, but she would be less of a doormat; she would tell him off when he upset her. It was time he learned that it wasn't okay to treat those who loved him like boot brushes.

Molly crouched down in the space between the bedside and the wall, placing the paper against her thigh, and lifted the pen to write her next note, but hears the faint sound of a woman screaming. She closes her eyes, hums loudly, and imagines being back in her lab, arguing over slide samples with Sherlock. When she opens her eyes again, all is silent-but she still whispers a plea for her consulting detective to find her.

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

When the trio arrived at the north end of the Palace of Westminster, there were news crews, tourists, and police tape everywhere. Lestrade cursed under his breath. "What a bloody nightmare; Donovan's going to skin me for this." He pushed his way through the crowd, followed closely by Sherlock and John.

"Detective Inspector, Lestrade!" Greg recognized the journalist as Tom Jenkins, from the London Evening Standard. "Is it true that there's a dead body up in the bell tower?" Tom shouted.

"Detective Lestrade! What is the name of the victim?" This came from Cara Miller, journalist for The Telegraph.

"Lestrade! There was a body found in Jubilee Gardens! Do we have a serial killer in London?" Aimee Flannigan, from The Guardian, hollered.

"Is the public safe? Will we all be murdered in our beds?" Kitty Riley, investigative journalist, said loudly, attracting a few stares; the thought that people could actually be slaughtered in the their homes and hung out in public places unnerved some.

Sherlock, behind Lestrade, sighed loudly. He was going to say something, but John shoved his elbow into Sherlock's back. For his effort, he received an icy glare from the taller man.

Greg Lestrade kept silent, stomping past the flashing cameras, yelling crowd, and some of his officers until he reached Sgt. Sally Donovan.

"Donovan," Lestrade said in greeting.

"Lestrade, I'm going to shoot you in the eye, I swear. It's a bloody circus!"

Greg nodded resignedly. "I know, I know, and I'm sorry. What do we have?"

"Another female. Blonde, again. Nude, and beaten up pretty badly, burns, but this one's had her tongue cut out. She's strung up by meat hooks; the guys want to cut her down—because it's actually upset some of them—but we were waiting for the Freak. He's got more fan mail." She glared at Sherlock, who returned her angry gaze with a cool, impassive one.

"Did you find out anything about the plates?" Greg asked.

Donovan nodded. "Yeah, the vehicle's registered to a Roger Harper in Ripon, who filed a missing vehicle report five days ago."

"What do we know about him?"

"He's 72, wife is very ill—cancer—and Mr. Harper has an artificial leg," Donovan told him. "It's doubtful he's kidnapping women and killing them."

"Anyone's capable of killing, Donovan," Sherlock said smoothly, thinking of Molly Hooper.

"Including you, Freak?" The woman countered. This time, it was Sherlock's turn to glare. John simply shook his head, amused.

"Knock it off," Greg ordered, clearly annoyed. "We don't have time for the two of you to verbally slap each other around." He turned to Donovan. "We'll head up to see what's going on with the body. I know it's a pain, but please, Donovan, just keep the media and public away."

She scowled, but nodded. "Will do, but damn it, Greg, you owe me."

Donovan must be angry with him, if she's using his given name. "I'll cover the paperwork for this, all right?" He offered.

She sighed. "All right."

Lestrade looked around. "Where's Sherlock?"

"The Freak took off up to the bell tower as soon as you scolded him." She snickered. "Can I call him Quasimodo now?"

"Donovan, knock it off," he commanded. "Sherlock's here to help."

Sally held up her hands in mock surrender, but Greg didn't give her another thought; he hoofed up to the bell tower, where he found Sherlock and John—having an argument with Anderson. As usual, Sherlock was verbally cutting down the forensic scientist. John was standing near the body, looking at a sheet of paper, but his gaze kept shifting to the quarrelling duo, in case he needed to wrangle—and possibly strangle—Sherlock.

"Hey, you two," Lestrade said, clapping his hands on both Sherlock's and Anderson's shoulders. "Knock it off and get back to work."

Anderson slunk away, and Sherlock shrugged Greg's hand away, straightening his flipped-up collar, replying smoothly, "You are not my boss, Lestrade; kindly refrain form ordering me about."

"Would you rather I order you off the premises?" Greg countered.

Sherlock said nothing, striding back to John, who handed him the envelope bearing the consulting detective's name. "I don't know what you want me to make of this. Is it supposed to be a love letter?"

"No, it's not," Sherlock said, with a shake of his head. "Molly—and Moriarty—are attempting to draw me into a game. They are leaving clues and so far, they are all pointing to famous London landmarks. These women are all women Tom Riary—or Moriarty—have kidnapped after meeting them through the dating website."

"Is there any way we can get the website to shut down?" John asked.

"It might be possible," Sherlock replied; he knew of one person who could make it possible, but he wasn't going to ask _him._ "but Moriarty will just find another way to play this game," he continued. "Read the letter again, and tell me which landmark that refers to."

John looked down at the letter and recited the words out loud. Greg listened intently. "_Dearest Sherlock,_ _Soaked in blood, they cannot see… Unclipped, my raven's wings are… Conquest, Castle, Crown… Hilltop tower soars above… Beefeater, attend me… Elizabeth, I am called… Always beautiful, with white skin... Under the moonlight, doves sing… Traitor, you've been named… I glide through the water… Fighting the current all the way… Understand me now… Lion of my heart… Standing by London's Tower… Kings and queens know me not… I carry my head… Nether my arm. Love, Molly xox"_

"Molly calls herself 'Elizabeth'?" Greg asked, his brows knit together in confusion. "Since when?"

"It's her middle name," John supplied, automatically.

"How do _you_ know that?" Sherlock asked, frowning.

"She told me once," John told him. "I'm surprised you didn't see that when you looked at her personnel file."

"You did _what?"_ Lestrade asked Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't respond, but took the paper from John. _Soaked in blood, they cannot see._ "Colonel Thomas Blood attempted to steal the crown jewels from this place in 1671," he said. _Unclipped, my raven's wings are._ "Ravens are kept at this place at all times; there's a ridiculous superstition that if they leave, England falls."

"Oh, right! I know where we need to go, now," John broke in.

Sherlock continued, ignoring John: _Conquest, Castle, Crown._ "The Norman Conquest, referring to William of Normandy taking over the area, and a it was once used as a castle, and, as I'd said, the Crown Jewels are stored here." Hilltop tower soars above. " A reference to Tower Hill." Beefeater, attend me. "The nicknames of the Yeomen Warders, guards of the Crown Jewels."

"Gotcha. The Tower of London," Lestrade said. "On it." He turned away and began barking orders. The body was lifted down from the hooks, and placed carefully into a black body bag. Anderson collected a few more pieces of evidence, and zipped up the bag. Greg took out his mobile and began tapping away at it, presumably to Donovan, to tell him where the next body would be found.

Even though his audience had dwindled, Sherlock read on: _Elizabeth, I am called._ "Elizabeth I was imprisoned there." _Always beautiful, with white skin. _"A nod to the White Tower." _Under the moonlight, doves sing. Traitor, I am called._ "Traitor's Gate reference." _I find my way through the water_. "Obviously, she writes about the Water entrance." _Fighting the current all the way._ "The current of the Thames." _Understand me now. Lion of my heart._ "The inner ward was created during Richard the Lionheart's reign." _Standing by London's Tower._ "Well, there it is, finally: The Tower of London. Really, why don't they just say that to begin with?" _Kings and queens know me not._ "Kings and queens have resided and sentenced to death at the Tower." _I carry my head. Nether my arm._ "The Ghost of Anne Boleyn is purported to reside here; it's rumored that she carries her head under her arm. And oh, god, the grammar in this letter is atrocious; a period does **_not_**belong in the middle of a sentence."

Sherlock," John finally replied, "I appreciate the history lesson, but shouldn't we get over to the Tower, too?" He gestured around them; only two officers remained.

Sherlock sniffed. "Yes, but first, I'm going down there to nick Anderson's badge."

"Don't you usually take Greg's?" John recalled Sherlock's drawer of police badges.

"Yes, but as Lestrade has been unusually less annoying these last few hours, and Anderson unbelievably more so, Anderson's it is."

"Sherlock, you are such a child."

Sherlock turned on his heel. "Yes. I've been reliably informed of that, thank you."


	13. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade offered the duo a ride to the Tower, but John declined for them, telling him they'll take a cab. This surprised both Sherlock and Greg, but neither said a word.

In the cab, Sherlock opted for silence, allowing John to speak first, because that was the reason for the cab ride, wasn't it?

"Sherlock, I've been thinking…" John said slowly, and one corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up. '_Of course.'_

He was rarely wrong.

"Now, John," Sherlock told him, holding up one hand. "I'm in no mood for your ideas on how we can take turns doing the shopping, so—"

"No, I mean about Molly."

This was unexpected. "What about her?" Sherlock asked cautiously.

"I don't think she's capable of doing this—being part of this, I mean."

"That's your problem, John," Sherlock sniffed, "you _don't_ think. You're allowing your _feelings _for Molly get in the way. _She's writing the letters,_ so, obviously, she's got a hand in it."

"Yes, she's my friend, so, of course I'm trying to see this objectively," John sighed in exasperation. "What if her hand is an unwilling one?" he asked. "Moriarty _is_ involved," he said, pointedly.

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "Yes—and he has many people working for him; Molly could be one of them." He felt a niggling in his brain, and sighed; now was definitely not the time to start malfunctioning.

John turned toward completely him now. "Why do you think so little of her?"

Sherlock made a face. "_What?"_

John rubbed a hand over his face. "Look. She's never been nothing but nice to us, Sherlock; why would you suddenly start thinking she's gone rogue and is killing people?"

"Well, for one, the letters," Sherlock replied quickly. "Two, she changed on Christmas Eve…"

"Yes, because you pushed her too far, Sherlock," John accused. "You always push her around. That's not good."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed on his friend. "Are you saying she's gone bad because of _me?"_ He replied, ignoring the sudden pounding in his head.

John held up both hands. "Hey, I didn't say anything of the sort. I'm just saying that you are so quick to believe there's something wrong, despite knowing her for years."

Sherlock didn't reply, and John could feel the tension radiating from him.

"Ah, I understand, now," John said as it dawned on him. "You don't really know her at all, do you?

Sherlock closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. "This conversation is over, John."

"You spend an enormous amount of time around her, but you don't talk to her unless it's to insult or demand something from her. So, it's no wonder why you are so quick to believe something bad about Molly."

"I don't believe anything. I make deductions based on what I see, and I see dead women with notes written by Molly Hooper."

John snorted. "I still think we shouldn't jump to conclusions about Molly until we have more information," he said. "Aren't you always going on about needing more data?"

Sherlock ignored him. The pounding in his head seemed to get stronger. When was the last time he'd eaten—or slept? He would remedy that soon, but perhaps it was also time to delete information from his mind palace; it was getting too crammed with facts, probably causing the throbbing.

John scoffed at Sherlock's silence. "Right. Well, I'm starting to believe that Molly was correct."

Sherlock opened his eyes slightly and glared at him. "How so?"

"There _is _something wrong with you."

"And you've just now realized that?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John just shook his head and turned towards the window.

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

At the Tower of London, they don't find another body—or a letter—at all. It was a ruse, and they now had nothing else to go on. Lestrade, Donovan, and John were relieved to not find another dead woman; only Sherlock was disappointed.

"The Freak needs a girlfriend, clearly," Donovan sneered to Anderson as Sherlock walked away, John in tow.

"I'd say he's all ready got one," Anderson shot back with a snort, and the two laughed heartily.

Lestrade came up behind both of them and cleared his throat. They jumped in surprise and mumbled their apologies, Anderson retreating quickly to the van he'd arrived in.

"That 'Freak' is helping us, Donovan," Lestrade gave her a stony glare. "Refrain from the name-calling, will you?"

Donovan nodded sheepishly. Lestrade, satisfied for the moment, told her to give the 'all clear'. Sally lifted her radio to her lips and did his bidding.

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

Jeanette was leaning against the iron fence just outside the Baker Street flat, sipping a hot coffee. John's eyes lit up as the cab pulled to the curb. He rushed forward and leaned up to give Jeanette a kiss on the lips, but she turned her face away and he pecked her on the cheek. John reddened a bit at this slight, and cleared his throat.

Sherlock stared at the couple for a moment, his eyes lingering on Jeanette, taking in her stance, her clothes and makeup… He then frowned and pushed past them to enter the building. "See you in a few minutes, John," he said knowingly.

"Well, hello to you, too!" Jeanette shouted at Sherlock's back before the door closed.

"Don't mind him," John said lightly. "Had a bad day."

"Day?" Jeanette scoffed. "His whole _life_ is one, big, miserable—"

"Ah, it's great to see you, though!" John said hurriedly, cutting her off. "So, what brings you here? Not that I mind, because I certainly don't, but I didn't know you'd be here. You didn't text. Did we make a date and I've forgotten?"

"No," she clipped.

"Right," John chirped, giving her a small smile. "Would you like to come up for tea?"

"I have coffee," she said tightly, holding up her paper cup.

"Right."

She brushed her a stray hair from her face. "Look, John," she sighed, "this is awkward, but I really need to say this, because a text or email would be rude…"

John's face fell. "Oh, Jesus…" He knew what was coming; this had happened plenty of times before—more so in the last two years, since he moved in with Sherlock.

"John, it's just not working out—you and I. You're a wonderful man, but…"

"Of course there's a _'but'_…" John said flatly.

"I'm rather tired of waiting around for you to notice me."

"What are talking about?" he frowned.

"Well… You're always putting Sherlock first."

"No, I don't," John protested.

Jeanette gave him a look that clearly implied otherwise. She went on: "My friends don't think that you're a particularly good boyfriend. We almost never go anywhere!"

"We went to the cinema once—"

She snorted. "Yes, you dragged me there to keep an eye on Sherlock, who was convinced there was a bomb at that location!"

"But there wasn't," John replied too quickly. "And we got a chance to see a great film…"

"John," Jeanette sighed, exasperated, "that's not romantic at all. At. All."

"Oh. Right."

"I have one more point to make," Jeanette informed him. "Do you know what my profession is?"

"Er…" This strange question came at him like a curve ball.

Jeanette crossed her arms and looked at him disapprovingly. "John, don't you see? This is why it needs to be over. We have been dating for four months now, and you've been to my place twice, we don't go anywhere, I'm _sick_ of take-away, and now you can't even name my job! But I'll just bet that if your laptop was open and you were looking at my profile, you'd be able to whip off answers, wouldn't you?"

John looked at his shoes. She was right, of course.

Jeanette looked down at her mobile. "I need to go. Tell your other girlfriend that he's won."

John frowned. "He's not my girlfriend." _'He's more like a big kid that I babysit for free,'_ John thought angrily.

"Right," Jeanette replied skeptically. She turned away and flagged a cab. "I'm off, now. Goodbye, John." A taxi stopped for her, and she opened the door—but then she turned and looked back. John smiled, and she said to him. "Teacher."

"Teach—what?" He asked in confusion.

"I'm a _teacher_, John." She sighed tiredly, then slid into the cab, closed the door, and didn't look at him as the car rolled away.

John realized then that during that entire conversation, she'd said his name several times, and he had not spoken hers once. He was definitely not very good boyfriend material.

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

John trudged up the steps to the flat, feeling dejected. He thought he liked Jeanette and that things were going well, but after their final confrontation, he realized she was correct; they did not suit well. He had just been fooling himself these last few months. He made up his mind in that moment; he was deleting his dating profile, and would try to meet women the old-fashioned way—by speaking directly to them in coffee shops or at Tesco's.

John entered the flat and shrugged out of his coat, placing it over the back of his chair. He flopped down into it, and picked up his laptop, logged into the LondonLovers site, and began the process of deleting his profile.

"I say good riddance to her," Sherlock announced from his seat in the kitchen.

"Pardon?"

"I could have saved you the trouble," Sherlock continued, picking up some petri dishes, looking for a slide. He found the one he needed and placed it on his microscope. "She wasn't right for you, anyway."

"Thank you for your input," John replied sarcastically, "but I'd rather not talk about it."

"I knew you and what's-her-name wouldn't last," Sherlock boasted. "Actually, I was surprised it lasted as long as it had." He put his face to the microscope's eyepiece. "She wears the most awful shade of lipstick. Indigo. It relates to a need for recognition. Her shoes, Crocs, are a result of complete laziness, uncaring how she appears before you. And the way she held her coffee cup, in her left hand, suggests she was expecting to use her right hand, her dominant hand, possibly to strike you. Splitting up was definitely for the best."

John felt his blood pressure rising with each syllable that tumbled from Sherlock's lips. It was no surprise that his friend did not care for any of his girlfriends, but for Sherlock to tear them apart, especially after each relationship ended, was humiliating. John was tired of the consulting detective tearing apart his love life. Sherlock didn't even have one—and probably never would—so he had no right to insult John's!

John took a deep breath, set aside his laptop, stood up and grabbed his jacket. He wanted to punch Sherlock, but decided he'd really rather not "I'm going out for milk," he said as calmly as possible. Retreating down the steps and back into the bustle of early evening. Sherlock got up from his chair and opened the fridge. Looking past a bag of ears, he sees a nearly full milk carton on the shelf. He whips out his mobile and texts John:

_We have milk. —SH _

_I know. —JW_

_Then why are you getting more? —SH_

_I'm not. I need some time alone. —JW_

_You couldn't do that here? —SH_

_You're there, you won't shut it, and I'd rather not have Lestrade come by. —JW_

_What does Lestrade have to do with this? —SH_

_He'll need to arrest me after I've pounded you into the floor. —JW_

_Understood. Don't do anything stupid, John. What's-her-name isn't worth it. —SH_

John looked down to read Sherlock's message, and was nearly knocked down by someone in a white pea coat. He stumbled and the mobile clattered on the pavement. He snapped it up quickly and turned to the other person. "Oh, Jesus!" He cried. "I'm terribly sorr—"

He stops, realizing he's looking at Mary Morstan. Her mobile is in hand, and she's grinning at him like a loon. "Oh, hello, John!" she says brightly.

"Hello, Mary," he replied, returning her smile. "How are you feeling? Everything all right?"

"Yes," she nodded, her blonde curls bobbing around her white cap. "I've been seeing a therapist, and next week, I take some self-defense courses." She smiled and continued, "My therapist suggested I try to get out of my house and hang out with friends I feel comfortable with."

"Oh! Well, that's… that's good… very good," John nodded his approval. "So… where were you off to? Am I interrupting anything?"

"Actually, I was texting you," she laughs and holds out her mobile for him to see. He looked down at it, then back at her with a wide beam, flattered that she thought of him at all. "Nice!"

"I was going to ask if you were home, because I wanted to stop by," she continued, not taking her eyes from his face.

"Ah," he nodded again. "Well, I'm not." He groaned inwardly at how ridiculous that sounded.

She smiled knowingly. "I can see that."

"So…" he began shoving his hands into his pockets. "Did you… want to grab a cup of coffee, instead? Or is that too—?"

Mary shook her head. "It's not too soon. Really. I'd love that, John, thank you." She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. "I just passed a coffee shop; shall we go there?

John offered her his arm. She made a show of linking it with her own, and together, the pair steered themselves toward the coffee shop.

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

Sherlock had just set down his mobile when he heard a creak on the steps. His ears perked up; this was not Mrs. Hudson or John—those two came up the stairs with confidence, having lived in the building long enough to know each step. Lestrade always seemed to run up them, much like Sherlock did, and the sound was definitely not that of a runner. They sounded measured, heavy, and there was a small sound accompanying the footfalls. Sherlock knew whom these footsteps belonged to.

He sighed in annoyance. "Hello, Mycroft."

"Good evening, dear brother."

"What do you want this time? Has the queen lost one of her dogs?" Sherlock wiped his hands on a towel and moved toward the sitting area.

"Don't be ridiculous," Mycroft scoffed. "Aren't you going to invite me in?"

Sherlock gestured for his brother to step inside. "I have heard that inviting a vampire into your home is dangerous business."

"Really, Sherlock, you actually watch mind-numbing things like that?" Mycroft shook his head, looking around the flat in distaste. He had no doubt John Watson tried to keep things tidy, but Mycroft knew his brother was a complete mess.

"No, of course not," the younger man scoffed. "I once overheard Sgt. Donovan telling one of her co-workers that. It's rubbish, but in your case, I might make an exception."

Mycroft stepped into the room, hooking his umbrella over his forearm. "Charming." He moved straight for John's chair and lowered himself into it. Sherlock opened his violin case and took up his instrument and bow. He played a few smooth notes, and turned to face Mycroft.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock's moue showed his displeasure.

"What? No niceties?" Mycroft's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Mummy sends her love, by the way."

Sherlock did not respond. He went back to playing his violin.

Mycroft sighed. Sherlock was going to continue to ignore him until he coughed up some useful information. He'd better do it quick; his wife wanted to see him in an hour; they had to interview a new riding instructor for their two daughters.

So he opened with: "'Tom Riary' is one of several aliases for a James Moriarty."

Sherlock stopped playing, but didn't turn around. "I all ready knew that," he announced smugly.

Mycroft ignored this and went on: "Moriarty also has a companion named Sebastian Moran, who MI6 has labeled as 'the second most dangerous man in London'. He was educated at Eton and Oxford before embarking upon a military career. Ex-army colonel. Moran's also a devoted sportsman—he prefers a Bowie knife for close-range work—and is highly skilled shot. It's very likely the Moran is kidnapping the women, so Moriarty isn't doing this alone."

"Of course not. Molly Hooper is also working with them," Sherlock interjected, his expression impassive.

Mycroft gave Sherlock a look that clearly said he believed his brother to be an idiot. He then continued: "'Tom' has been logging into the dating site from several places around England. He's been bouncing his signal around, so we haven't gotten a proper lock on him, _yet_, but two places of note did crop up at one time: once was in Ripon, where a car had been stolen and then was seen again bringing a Miss Morstan—one of the possible kidnap victims—to hospital. That cannot be a coincidence."

"Where was the other?" Sherlock asked sharply.

"From a computer in St. Bart's."

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

Lestrade had his feet propped on his desk as he ate a doughnut and read over copies of the all the letters Molly Hooper had written. It bothered him that they still hadn't found her. Was she all right? He certainly hoped so; she seemed like such a nice young woman. Sherlock believed she was taking an active part in the crimes, but Greg didn't want to believe it was true. But without proof, he couldn't make a decision. Just because you saw someone regularly and thought they were sweet was not enough to believe they were innocent—his slag of a wife was proof of that.

Just then, Sally Donovan knocked on his slightly open door. She poked her head in. "Got someone here to see you."

"Who is it?" he asked, his mouth full with cruller.

"Andrew Berman."

Lestrade face contorted in confusion. "I have no idea who that is."

"Didn't expect you to," Donovan shot back, with a shake of her head. "But he's not from the media."

"Thank god for that." He sighed in relief. Greg was getting tired of Kitty Riley calling every two hours, looking for information. The last time she phoned, Donovan spoke to her, calling her a 'daft, nosey minge'. He nearly spat out his coffee from laughter.

"He got something you need to see," she replied. "I hate to say this, but we might need the Fre—" Sally stumbled over the last word when Lestrade gave her a sharp warning look, and backtracked immediately. "Er… We might need _him."_

Lestrade put his feet down, crammed the last bite of sweet dough into his mouth, and wiped his hands on his pants. Sally opened the door all the way and gestured to someone behind her. An older gentleman of about—tall, somewhat stooped, probably from too many years of leaning over books—with a long face, worried expression, and thinning sandy hair entered. He was carrying a clear, zippered bag, which held something flat and rectangular in shape.

He shook hands with the Detective Inspector, and sat in one of the chairs opposite, as Greg sat down again, and Sally leaned against the desk. The newcomer identified himself as Andrew Berman, the husband of Jill Berman, one of the Pathologists at St. Bart's. This made Lestrade sit up and pay closer attention; Molly Hooper is also a Pathologist at St. Bart's.

Mr. Berman spoke: "I'm sorry to bother you on a Friday evening, but I need to file a missing persons report. My wife never came home this morning, after her shift last night, and I'm worried about her; I've heard about the woman found at Big Ben, and, well…" he broke off and started to cry.

Lestrade gave Donovan a _"What in blazes am I supposed to do with this?"_ look. Donovan held up her hand, silently; she wanted him to just wait.

Mr. Berman extracted a handkerchief from his pants pocket, and wiped his eyes. "Apologies. You'll forgive me if I'm overly distressed."

"That's understandable, Mr. Berman," Greg nodded. "Have you tried to call her?"

"I did—several times, actually, and she never picked up. I texted her, too, but got no reply. I went to Bart's to look for Jill, and found her vehicle still parked in the lot." He took a deep, shuddering breath. "She would never leave her vehicle in the lot; the risk of a break-in is too great… No offense to the Yard's finest."

Lestrade nodded absently; he wanted to know what was in the pouch.

Mr. Berman saw the direction of the Detective Inspector's gaze, and pushed the pouch toward him. "I found her phone on the floor of the passenger side, and this on the seat."

Greg picked up the pouch and turned it over—and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. It was another strange riddle in Molly's handwriting.

"I used gloves, Detective, and I also have her phone in a bag, if you require it," Mr, Berman said in a low voice. "I know my wife's job. If there's any evidence on that letter, I didn't want to contaminate it."

As Lestrade read the letter, Donovan asked Mr. Berman for the phone and if he'd be willing to be subjected to fingerprinting, to eliminate himself as a suspect, and Mr. Berman readily agreed. The pair exited the room, and Greg grabbed his mobile and texted Sherlock.

_New letter. Found at Bart's. Come by the Yard ASAP.-GL_


End file.
